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IN CUPID’S NET. 


CHAPTER I. ■ 

No matter where the Christmas stars shone or the Christ- 
mas snow fell, there was not in the whole world so desolate 
a girl as 1. I liad watched them, those fair stars, shining 
in a deep blue sky, in a different clime from this — a clime 
where roses grow well-nigh all the year round, and the sil- 
ver seas are rarely ruffled by storms. I had watched them 
from between high gray walls which I know now to have 
inclosed the court of a convent ; and since then I have 
watched them from the grand old gardens of Heron’s Nest. 
All through my lonely, desolate childhood, uncheered by 
the warmth and the brightness of the sun of love, the stars 
were as friends to me. 

Some one had told me, when I was quite a little child, 
about the wonderful Star of Bethlehem — how it had shone 
brightly in the winter sky ; how king and shepherd had 
marvelled at it, and how “ the wise men ” had traversed the 
plains until the star set — set over a humble stable wherein 
lay the Holy Child. How many nights did I lie awake 
Avatching for that star, my heart beating faster if one 
appeared larger and brighter than the others, for surely, I 
thouglit, that must be the star! So lonely Avas I that in 
my childish dreams I had resolved always to follow that 
star when it came, for might it not lead me to some one 
Avho would love me ? My star Avas long in rising, and, 
Avhen at last I followed its light, it led me — my story will 
tell whither. 

I remember, as in a dream, a journey over stormy seas ; 
I hear far-off echoes of a voice ; and I haA^e a faint recollec- 
tion of a face bending OA^er mine. But the first vivid im- 
pression of ' my life is of standing at the Avindow of the 
housekeeper’s room at Heron’s Nest, Avatching the shadows 
groAV darker and the snoAV fall one Christmas Eve. There 
Avas no rejoicing in the grand old mansion. It Avas all 


4 


IN CUPID\S NET. 


dark and dismal. The snow beat fiercely upon it ; the wind 
sobbed round it ; but loud and sweet above the moan of 
the wind came the chiming of the church bells. To me 
they spoke plainly enough. They said, “Christmas is 
come — Christmas is come ! ” I wondered if they said the 
same to every one else. I spoke to the only friend I had, 
Mrs. Paterson, the housekeeper. 

‘^What do the bells of Heronsdale Church really say ?“ 
I asked her. 

“ Bells do not speak,” she replied, smiling. 

“ You cannot say they are dumb,” I rejoined. “ Listen ! ” 
— and slowly I sung with them, “ Christmas is come — 
Christmas is come ! ” 

Mrs. Paterson shook her head. 

“Gracia,” she said, not unkindly, “you are too full of 
fancies.” 

“To tell you the truth,” I answered, “I hardly know 
what are fancies and what are not. Is it a fancy of mine 
that because it is Christmas Eve the snow falls more softly 
and the stars shine more brightly ? Is it my fancy that 
puts real music into the chime of the bells — that fills the 
air with a strange sense of mystery ? ” 

“Gracia,” said the housekeeper solemnly, “you had 
better go to bed.” 

“Oh, no !” I cried; “ do not send me away. It is cold 
and dark in my room. Let me stay here in the warmth 
and light with you. I want to watch the sky and see if the 
Christmas star shines to-night.” 

She murmured to herself a wish that Heaven would bless 
the child and her fancies, but she was not angry. 

“ How fondly mothers will kiss their children to-night ! ” 
I went on. “ How warmly will old friends clasp hands ! 
If one man has wronged another, how freely he will be for- 
given ! I wish some one would kiss me.” 

“I will kiss you, Gracia,” said the housekeeper. 

And she did ; but it did not seem to satisfy the craving 
that I felt. 

“Are you not happy here ? ” she asked, kindly. 

“ How can I be happy when I belong to no one, when I 
have not a friend or relative in the world — when I have not 
even a name ?” I said, bitterly. 

“ You live in a beautiful house, you wear good clothes, 
and have everything a girl can wish for,” she answered. 

“ I want none of those things,” I cried ; “ I want some 

one to love me.” 


nv ccrriDKs net. 


5 


“I have made a plum-pudding and some mince-pies,” 
said Mrs. Paterson, with a view to diverting my thoughts. 
“ You shall have a liot mince-pic for your supper, Gracia, 
if you will stop talking. You almost frighten me.” 

But plum-pudding and mince-pies had no charms for me. 
I loved the pale moonlight, the softly-falling snow, the light 
of the stars. I longed to go out and see if I could pene- 
trate the mystery that seemed to lie around. I wanted to 
hear more distinctly the bells that seemed to chime: 
“ Christmas is come — Christmas is come ! ” 

That is my first vivid recollection. How the fair clime 
where the roses grew, how the high gray walls had disap- 
peared, I could not tell. Here 1 was, a child of ten, and 
no one had the slightest knowledge about me. No one 
knew why I was at Heron’s Nest ; no one knew my parents, 
my name, my position. I might be the daughter of a peer 
or a peasant. I had not a friend. In the whole world 
there was not a more lonely child than I. 

Everyone called me “ Gracia — the housekeeper, the 
old butler, the head-gardener, the vicar, his wife and 
daughter ; I had no other name. When any one said ab- 
ruptly, “ Gracia what ? ” — as people often did when they 
asked me my name — I could not answer. . “ Gracia,” the 
simple name— rnothing but “ Gracia ! ” The keenest of all 
pains to me was having no name ; and when I read the 
story of the shadowless man, I believed that I understood 
what he had suffered. I was part of the place, just as the 
pictures and statues and carvings were ; and a grand old 
place it was. 

Heron’s Nest was one of the finest old manor-houses in 
England. 

It was almost hidden by a wealth of luxuriant foliage, 
but was within sound of the sea. It had been built in the 
reign of Edward HI., and was erected by order of the 
king for the use of his Queen Philippa. At that date, the 
pools of water in the district abounded with herons ; so 
Queen Philippa gave to it the name of Heron’s Nest. 
Afterward a large town sprung up near it, and this was 
called Heronsdale. The Dale woods have been made 
famous by artist and poet, and the river Dale, which ran 
through the manor grounds, contributed greatly to the 
beauty of the spot. The house itself was large and pictu- 
resque. Many additions had been made to the original struc- 
ture ; wings had been added to the east and the west. A 
broad terrace ran along the front of the house, from which 


6 


IM CUPJirS XET. 


steps led to the garden below. The beauty of antiquity 
and the luxury of modern days were to be found side by 
side in the noble edifice. The rooms were large and lofty, 
light and bright — some of them panelled in oak, others dec- 
orated and furnished with all modern elegance. In the 
grounds one came upon charming nooks and dingles where 
least expected. Pretty fountains gleamed among the 
trees ; old-fashioned flowers bloomed in the gardens. The 
state apartments, so long closed, were magnificent ; the 
large suites of rooms to the east and the west were also 
very handsome. Heron's Nest contained some splendid 
specimens of the goldsmith’s art, and valuable pictures 
and statues ; for the Dacres, who owned the place, were 
very rich. 

The manor-house, with all its lands, had been given to 
the Dacres for important services rendered to the crown. 
The first possessor of Heron’s Nest was a stalwart warrior 
named Stephen Dacre ; and from him it had descended in 
a direct line. Many a reigning monarch had offered titles 
to the squires of Heron’s Nest, which, however, none of 
them would accept. They were proud of the title “ squire,” 
and would change it for no other. I once heard Mrs. 
Paterson say that she believed her master would rather be 
Squire of Heron’s Nest than King of England ; and I be- 
lieve it was true. 

The squire who owned Heron’s Nest at the time of my 
first memories of the place was called Wolfgang — a name 
of which, though not by any means an attractive one, he 
was very proud, because many of his ancestors had borne 
it ; and of this Wolfgang Dacre a story was told. When 
a young man, he spent a season in London, and there fell 
madly in love with a court beauty, said to be one of the 
loveliest women in England. He had not the least chance 
of winning her, for she was a duke’s daughter and a great 
heiress ; she was a coquette too, false of heart as fair of 
face. The handsome young squire, who worshipped her as 
though she were a goddess, made a very agreeable addi- 
tion to her list of admirers. She had no intention of 
marrying him ; but she enjoyed the pleasant pastime of 
flirting with him, and revelled in the sport She liked to 
see the young man’s face pale with emotion, flush with 
anger or love, just as she willed. She delighted in exer- 
cising her power over him, making his honest heart thriil 
with rapture, then sink with despair. He was the favorite 
of all her admirers ; but she never thought of marrying 


IX C CUPID'S NET. 


7 


him. True he was of ancient descent, his name one of 
the oldest in England, his wealth great ; but then he was 
only a country squire, and she was a duke’s daughter. 
She accepted his homage, smiled upon him until her beauty 
almost maddened him, wore the flowers that lie sent her, 
let him clasp her hand until every nervx in his frame 
thrilled with delight at the touch, waltzed with him when 
the very sweetness of the music dazed him ; but she never 
dreamed of marrying him. Had any one suggested such 
a thing, she would have been indignant. When the day 
came that Wolfgang Dacre laid all he had in the world at 
her feet, she laughed at him and held him up to derision. 
Me left London then, never to return. He shut himself 
up in the old manor-house, a man whose life was embit- 
tered forever by the light love of a woman. 

There he lived for some years. Lady Millicent married, 
and the tragical story of her death a little later created a 
great sensation. Soon after that, he went abroad, leaving 
his beautiful home in the care of Mrs. Blencowe, his house- 
keeper. Twice every year Mr. Graham of Thavies Inn, 
the squire’s solicitor, went down to Heron’s Nest and re- 
mained for a week, during which time he thoroughly ex- 
amined the house, ordered all that was needful, attended 
to the accounts, and made all arrangements for the next 
six months. Occasionally — but it was a rare event — a let- 
ter came from the squire to the housekeeper ; no one else 
however ever knew the nature of the contents. Every- 
thing went on from year to year in the same monotonous, 
quiet, peaceful way. Gradually the memory of the squire 
died from the minds of his people ; and then I came upon 
the scene — whence no one at Heron’s Nest or in the neigh- 
borhood could tell. 

It seems that one fine April morning a letter came for 
the housekeeper, Mrs. Blencowe. After she had read it, 
she called the servants together, and told them she was 
compelled to go away for a time, as a friend of hers was ill 
and required her services. The housekeeper made her 
arrangements, attended to all that would be required dur- 
ing her absence, and then departed. 

She returned when the June roses were blooming, bring- 
ing me. I was six years old when I came with M rs. Blencowe 
to Heron’s Nest. She never spoke to the other serVjju^^S 
about me. She called me Gracia, and no one knevv 
whether it was my own name or not— I was simply Gracia. 
So far as I remember, she was very kind to me. 


8 


IN Cn FID'S NET. 


At Heronsdale there lived a gentle, simple old man, the 
organist of the parish church, Micliael Holt. He taught 
me music, and the rudiments of Latin, and made me ac- 
quainted with the beauties of English Literature — taught 
me for several years simply for love of me. Two years 
after she had brought me to Heron’s Nest the housekeeper 
died suddenly. She was standing on the steps in the 
library, dusting some valuable books, when she fell down 
dead. The doctor who was summoned said the cause of 
her death was disease of the heart — disease of long stand- 
ing. So I lost the only person wlio knew anything about 
me. 

After she was dead, people did what they had never 
dared to do in her lifetime — they put innumerable questions 
to me. What did I remember — what had I seen ? Where 
had I lived abroad — in what town ? Was Mrs. Blencowe 
my mother, or was she my aunt? But I remembered noth- 
ing clearly, except the roses and the high gray convent 
walls ; therefore I could not gratify their curiosity. It 
was possible that Mrs. Blencowe might be my mother, yet 
a proud instinct told me she was not. I was penniless, 
friendless, living at Heron’s Nest on sufferance ; yet I was 
proud as the daughter of any peer, and I do not believe 
that I ever lowered my head for any one. 

No sooner was Mrs. Blencowe dead than there was quite 
a disturbance about me. Some of the servants said that 
the squire’s solicitor ought to advertise for Mrs. Blencowe’s 
friends. He did so, and they came forward ; but none of 
them knew anything of me. 

It was suggested that I should be sent to the workhouse 
or to an orphanage ; but Mr. Graham would not hear of 
that. 

“The squire would be angry,” he said. “After all, the 
child will not cost much ; she had better stay here for the 
present. I do not know the squire’s address, or I would 
write and ask him what is to be done with her.” 

Then a new housekeeper came — Mrs. Paterson ; and she 
was as much mystified as the rest with regard to me. She 
was kind, and at times even indulgent to me. The gen- 
eral belief of the whole household was that I was Mrs. 
Blencowe’s daughter, and the servants treated me as such. 

They were familiar and kind ; but they regarded me as 
oLe of themselves, and only laughed at my love of books 
and study. 

I led that life for some years. The only person who 


IN CUP TINS NET. 


9 


treated me with any degree of respect was the vicar of the 
parish, the Reverend Ernest Sale. His wife never ac- 
knowledged me even by so much as a smile ora bow. She 
was highly connected, I believe, and was regarded as a 
model of elegance. The vicar’s daughter generally passed 
me by with a look of cold contempt. Miss Sale was am- 
bitious of being considered a county beauty. She intended 
to marry well, and altogether was a young lady of some 
importance. To them such a person as Mrs. Blencowe’s 
daughter was not worth a moment’s thought, and the only 
time that mother and daughter evinced any interest in me 
was when they both interfered to prevent me- from singing 
in Heronsdale Church. I had a fine contralto voice, which, 
thanks to Michael Holt, had been well trained, and my 
dear old master was very proud of his pupil. He said I 
sung like a nightingale. The proudest hour of my young 
life was when I stood up in the choir of the old church to 
sing, and my solo was — 

“ Hark, the herald-angels sing! ” 

I forgot — even now the remembrance brings tears to my 
eyes — the church and the people, the vicar standing so 
silent, the choir looking at me with wondering eyes. My 
very soul went out in the beautiful words, and I saw only 
the Christmas stars shining in the blue sky ; it was to them 
I was singing. 

After the service, Mrs. Sale, who at intervals had been 
exchanging angry glances with her daughter, whose voice 
was a sweet but weak soprano, came up and spoke to me. 
She said a girl in my position could not be too quiet or 
keep too much out of sight ; therefore it would be better 
that I should not sing in the choir again. 

So faded my only gleam of happiness. I was not 
daunted, however. The old piano in the library was my 
best friend ; before I was sixteen I knew most of the pop- 
ular operas, and was well versed in classical music. 

When Mrs. Paterson found how fond I was of music, 
she told me that I had better give up what little house- 
work I did, for it would spoil my hands. 

“Some day,” she said, “you will, perhaps, know who 
vou are ; then you will have to earn your own living, and 
vou may do so by music. By the bye, Gracia,” she added, 
“ I want you toValk over to the vicarage to-day to ask 
Mrs. Sale what butter she will want ; and mind, if you 
meet Miss Sale, that you make a proper courtesy to her.” 


10 


nv curings met. 


I ! My eyes flashed with indignation. Yet, after all, 
who was I that I should not bow to the vicar’s pretty 
daughter? a question to which I was unable to give an 
answer. 


CHAPTER II. 

When I reached my seventeenth year, my mirror told 
me that I was not wanting in beauty. I could not, and did 
not associate with any of the servants ; they had ceased to 
expect it. I spent most of my time in the library with 
the piano and books. There, three times a week, old 
Michael Holt came to give me my lessons ; there all my 
dreams were dreamed ; there I shed tears over my lonely 
loveless lot ; there I hoped for a future that should be 
brighter than the past. 

Should I ever find some one who would love me ? 
Would any one care for a girl who had not even a name ? 
Would anyone ever disturb the charmed solitude in which 
I lived ? Should I, like some heroine of fiction, go out 
one fine morning and meet a prince in disguise? How 
would my fate come to me ? What would the future be 
like ? What love was I hardly knew. 

I opened a book at random one day, and in it I saw a 
poem called, “A Woman’s Shortcomings,” in my opinion 
one of the sweetest poems ever written : 


“ Go, lady, lean to the night guitar, 
And drop a smile to the bringer ; 
Then smile as sweetly when he is far 
At the voice of an indoor singer. 
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes, 
Glance lightly on their removing. 
And join new vows to old perjuries, 
But dare not call it loving. 


“Unless you can think, when the song is done, 

No other is soft in the rhythm ; 

Unless you can feel, when left by one. 

That all men else go with him ; 

Unless you can know, when upraised by his breath. 
That your beauty itself wants proving ; 

Unless you can swear for life, for death. 

Oh, fear to call it loving ! 


IN’ CUPID^S NET. 


ir 


Unless you can muse in a crowd all day 
On the absent face that fixed you ; 

Unless you can love as the angels may, 

With the breath of heav’n betwixt you ; 

Unless you can dream that his faith is fast 
Through believing and unbelieving ; 

Unless you can die when the dream is past, 

Oh, never call it loving! ” 

And the words took possession of me, enchained me, 
and a voice in my heart told me that the future would lead 
me to a love like this. 

I was still thinking of the poem, when one of the maid- 
servants hastily entered the room. 

“Gracia,” she said, “Mrs. Paterson says you must come 
out of this room at once and go to hers. Mr. Graham has 
arrived, and he will not like to find you here.” 

Away went my romance, my fair dreams vanished ; the 
bitter reality had come back. Mrs. Paterson was right. 
What business had a girl without a name in that sumptuous 
library ? I would have given worlds to check tfie hot 
flush that rose to my face. In silence I laid down my 
book and quitted the room. 

In the hall, as I crossed it, I met a gentleman — Mr. 
Graham, I knew. When he saw me, he stopped suddenly. 

“ Why, who are you ?” he said. Strange that every one 
should ask the same question ! 

I could make only my usual a4iswer. 

“ I am Gracia.” 

“ Gracia,” he repeated, slowly ; and I saw to my surprise 
and delight, a look of admiration in his keen eyes. “ Are 
you the young girl supposed to be the late housekeeper’s 
daughter ? ” 

My proud head drooped. What would I not have given 
if I could have said, “ No ! ” Before I had time to answer, 
he added quickly — 

“ I, for my own part, do not believe that you are Mrs. 
Blencowe’s daughter ; but who you are is a mystery I can- 
not solve.” 

The words delighted me. It was the first time that any 
one seemed to think it possible that I might not be Mrs. 
Blencowe’s daughter. 

“The squire is coming home,” Mr. Graham continued, 
hurriedly. “ I do not know on which day he will arrive ; 
but it will be some time next week.” 

“Do you think he will let me remain here?” I asked, 
eagerly. “ Does he know that I am here ? ” 


12 


IN CUPID^S NET, 


“ I cannot answer either question,” he replied. “ The 
squire has never mentioned you in any of his letters. I 
wrote to him when Mrs. Blencowe died, and said that you 
would stop at Heron’s Nest, unless I heard from him to 
the contrary ; but he did not answer that letter.” 

“ What shall I do ? ” I asked, despairingly. 

“Do nothing,” he replied. “Keep out of his sight for 
a time. I wish I could be here when he comes, but I go 
to Scotland to-morrow, and shall not be back for some 
weeks. I have no doubt that he will do something for 
you.” 

I felt more puzzled than ever that day as to who I could 
possibly be. I must be of good birth, I thought, for every- 
thing about me betokened race. But to what family did 
I belong ? Ah, that was a mystery ! 

There was great excitement in the household when it 
was known that the master was returning. Mr. Graham 
remained only a few hours. The housekeeper had told 
him about my singing, and he sent for me to ask me to 
sing to him. I did so. When I had finished my song, he 
looked at me thoughtfully. 

“You need have no fear for the future, Gracia,” he 
said ; “ you have a fortune in your voice. I have heard 
none more beautiful.” 

“ A fortune ! ” I repeated, dreamily ; and then it oc- 
curred to me that I had never in my life had a shilling that 
I could call my own. 

He spoke very kindly, telling me that sooner or later 
something must transpire with regard to my parentage, 
that I was to take courage, and that he would always be 
my friend. 

Nothing was spoken of now but the coming of the 
squire. Quite an army of servants suddenly appeared ; 
trim housemaids, cooks, footmen, coachmen, and grooms, 
all seemed to spring into existence at once. The state- 
rooms in the great mansion were thrown open, the picture- 
gallery was set in order. There I saw a portrait of the 
squire when he was quite a young man ; and my wonder 
was that the Lady Millicent Branscombe could have re- 
sisted him, he looked so gallant and handsome. I loved 
the face, and when I looked at it I said to myself that the 
owner of it could never be cruel to me. There was a 
smile in the bonny blue eyes that promised well ; but then 
the picture had been painted before he saw the Lady 
Millicent. 


IN curious NET. 


'3 


Within three days after the announcement of the squire’s 
return, Heron’s Nest was quite another place. It seemed 
to me a fitting abode for a prince. Now there was less 
room than ever for me. I could not mix with the crowd 
of servants in the hall ; my feeling and instinct were 
against it. Into the renovated rooms I dared not enter. 
My favorite place, the library, was closed against me. My 
own little sleeping-room at the top of the house, whence I 
caught a glimpse of the sea, was my only refuge, and dur- 
ing the next week I lived almost entirely there. 

At last I heard that the squire had come. I had pict- 
ured him always as he was in his portrait — smiling and 
handsome ; but I had failed to allow for the havoc that 
years of sorrow and pain make. 

It seems that for some days no one mentioned me to the 
master of the house, nor did he make any inquiriesabout me. 

One night, when I believed the whole household to be 
asleep, I went quietly down to the library to get a book, 
one of Richard Proctor’s, called “Other Worlds than 
Ours ” — a book in which I revelled. There was no one 
there. I found my volume, and went back to my room 
with it ; but a bow of pink ribbon fell unperceived from 
my hair. As the squire passed through the room early in 
the morning, he saw it lying on the carpet, and he picked 
it up. Just at that moment one of the housemaids entered 
the room. 

“ To w’hom does this belong ? ” the squire asked her. 

“ To Gracia,” answered the maid. 

She told me of the meeting afterward, and said that 
when the squire heard the name he recoiled as though he 
had received a blow. 

“Whom ?” he cried, in a loud voice. 

And the maid repeated, 

“ Gracia.” 

“Send the housekeeper to me,” said the squire, after 
pacing moodily for some minutes up and down the room. 

Mrs. Paterson hastened to him, uncertain whether she 
was to hear praise or blame. The squire, when she en- 
tered the library, was standing before the great bay-win- 
dow. He turned to her abruptly. 

“ I understand you have a young person named Gracia 
Iiere. Who is she ? ” 

“No one knows, sir,” was the reply. “I found her 
here when I came, and she is here still.” 

“ How did she come here ?” was the next question. 


14 


IN CUriD\S NET. 


“ I cannot tell, sir. I have heard the servants say that 
the late housekeeper was called away suddenly, that she 
was absent some time, and returned with the child. I do 
not think any one in the house knows who she is.” 

A look of relief passed over the squire’s face. 

“ But that is improbable — impossible, I may say ! Some- 
one must know !” he exclaimed. 

“ To begin with, sir, I do not,” returned the house- 
keeper, with a dignified air. “ As Gracia had been in 
charge of the former housekeeper, I took her under my 
protection. Mr. Graham said he was sure that you would 
not like her to be taken to an orphanage or a workhouse. 
No one owned her, though we all believ’^ed her to be Mrs. 
Blencowe’s daughter.” 

She paused for a moment, while the squire paced up 
and down the room angrily. At length he came to a 
stand-still, and said abruptly : 

“ Send to me all the servants in the house.” 

So the butler, the head-gardener, all the old servants 
who were at Heron’s Nest before I came, were called be- 
fore the squire ; but not one among them knew anything 
more than this — that Mrs. Blencowe, after being absent 
for some time, had returned with me ; but whence she had 
brought me no one could tell. 

Was it anger or relief on the squire’s face when they 
were dismissed, and he stood thinking so deeply ? At last 
he rang the bell again, and, when one of the footmen an- 
swered it, he said : 

“ Tell Mrs. Paterson to send the — the young person 
Gracia to me.” 

Mrs. Paterson brought me the message herself. 

“ Go, Gracia,” she said, “and do not be afraid. Let the 
squire hear you sing, and he will put you in the way of 
making a fortune, I am sure.” 

But I went in fear and trembling to the library, where 
the squire awaited me. I found myself in the presence of 
a tall stately gentleman, whose hair was white as snow, 
and whose face, though marked by lines of terrible pain, 
was still handsome, with the fire of his blue eyes un- 
dimmed. But they were no longer laughing eyes ; they 
were stern, hard, and cold, not at all like the eyes of the 
portrait. What was it that flashed into them when they fell 
upon me ? 1 could not tell. Was it surprise, fear, love, 

or what ? I knew not ; but it was a look such as I have 
never seen on any human face since. 


/.V CrP/D'S NET. 


15 


We stood motionless for awhile, each looking steadily 
at the other ; then he started, sighed deeply, and shud- 
dered. He came a step nearer to me, then drew back ; 
finally he bade me approach him. He looked into my eyes 
as though he would r6ad my soul, and then said slowly : 

“ So you are Gracia ? ” 

“ Yes,” 1 replied. 

“ Nothing more ?” 

I had to pause, my heart was beating so fast. I won- 
dered what was stealing over me. My eyes filled with 
tears ; the sound of his voice seemed to stir the depths of 
my soul. 

“ I thought,” he said slowly, “ that Gracia was a child.” 

“ I was a child not long since,” 1 answered ; “ now I am 
growing up — yet helpless as when I was a child.” 

“ And who are you ?” he asked. 

Always that same cruel question ! I raised my eyes, 
blinded as they were by tears, to his face. 

“I do not know,” I answered. “No one knows who I 
am. The happy birds have a home ; but I have none.” 

“ Heron’s Nest has been a home — has it not ? ” he asked 
gently. 

“No one can have a home who has neither friend nor 
name,” I returned bitterly. 

“ And you ” 

“ Have neither,” I interrupted. 

He looked at me for some moments in silence, then 
asked, 

“ How old are you, Gracia ? ” 

“ Seventeen,” I replied. 

“ Tell me,” he said hesitatingly, “ what you remember 
of your past before you came here.” 

“ It is so little that it is hardly worth telling,” I an- 
swered. “ I remember first being near the sea, in a land 
where roses grew even to the water’s edge ; and I can re- 
call a face that used to bend over mine.” 

I saw the color leave his lips. 

“ Nothing more ?” he asked sharply. 

“ Then I recollect high gray walls— convent-walls I 
know they were, because I remember the sisters* faces — a 
stormy passage across the sea, and my arrival here. It 
was only when I reached Heron’s Nest that I really 
seemed to come to life.” 

“Did Mrs. Blencowe know your history?” he asked 
suspiciously. 


i6 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


“ I believe not.” 

“ She let fall no hint which might have proved a clew 
to your parents ? ” 

“No,” I replied. “I might have dropped from the 
clouds for all that any one seems to1?;now about me.” 

He murmured something I could not hear disinctly, 
but it sounded like “ Poor child ! ” 

“ Does it not strike you as a very strange thing that I 
should return home and find in my house a young lady ” 
— how that delighted me ! — “who has been living here for 
years, and of whom no one knows anything?” 

“ I do think it strange ; and, what is more, I think it 
cruel,” I answered. “ I must have had parents like other 
people. It is to Heaven they must answer for their neg- 
lect of me.” 

He was still looking at me intently. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ that you are a very beauti- 
ful girl ?” 

My heart beat wfith pleasure. No one had ever told me 
so before, and I knew so little of the outside world that I 
could hardly tell whether I was beautiful or not. 

“ Yes,” continued the squire, “you are beautiful as — ” 
He paused abruptly. “ And what education have you 
had ?” he asked. 

I gave him a list of my acquirements, and told him that 
Michael Holt had taught me all I knew. Long afterward 
I heard that he had presented Mr. Holt with five hundred 
pounds, without however assigning any motive for doing 
so. Then I ventured to say that Mrs. Paterson had wished 
me to sing to him, adding modestly that I thought I 
might, with a little assistance, be able to earn my own 
living. 

He smiled. Ah me, I shall never forget the beauty of 
that smile ! It changed his face altogether. 

“We shall see,” he said. “Let me hear you sing, 
Gracia.” 

He went to the piano, which stood at the other end of 
the room, and opened it. 

“ Who taught you music and singing ? ” he asked. 

“ The man who has taught me everything else,” I an- 
swered — “ Michael Holt.” 

On the day before I had found a beautiful little poem, 
and the words had pleased me so much that I set them to 
music. I did not now stop to think whether the verses 
were suitable or not, but sung them : 


IN' CUPJD^S NET. 


17 


“ Oh, wilt thou have my hand, dear, to lie along in thine ? 

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine. 

Now drop the poor pale hand, dear, unfit to plight with thine. 

“ Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, dear, drawn closer to thine own ? 

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn by many a tear run down ; 

Now leave a little space, dear, lest it should wet thine own. 

“ Oh, must thou have my soul, dear, commingled with thine own ? 

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand — the part is in the whole ; 

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate when soul is joined to soul.” 

“Whose words are those?” the squire asked, when I 
had finished. 

I told him. 

“ And whose music is it ? ” 

And I answered him — oh, so proudly ! — that the music 
was mine. 

“Yours?” he questioned, in surprise. “You must be 
clever ! Sing something else that you have set to music.” 

This time the song was quite different ; it was a more 
lively air : 

“ Gayly bedight 
A gallant knight 
In sunshine and in shadow 
Had journeyed long. 

Singing a song. 

In search of El Dorado. 

“ But he grew old. 

This knight so bold. 

And o’er his heart a shadow 
Fell, as he found 
No spot of ground 
That looked like El Dorado. 

“And, as his strength 
Failed him at length, 

He met a pilgrim shadow. 

‘ Shadow,’ said he, 

‘ Where can it be. 

This land of El Dorado ? ’ 

“ ‘ Over the Mountains 
Of the Moon, 

Down the valley of the shadow. 

Ride boldly — ride,’ 

The shade replied, 

‘ If you seek for El Dorado ! ’ ” 

A cry of delight fell from the squire’s lips as the last 
notes died away. 

2 


i8 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


“ Excellent ! ” he exclaimed. “ A girl who can compose 
such music need not despair.” 

Then I took courage, and, looking into his face, asked 
the question that had been hovering around my lips from 
the moment I first saw him. 

“Squire Dacre,” I said, “no one knows anything of 
me ; tell me, do you know who I am ?” 

I saw that for one moment at least the question para- 
lyzed him ; but he soon recovered himself. 

“ If I could solve the mystery,” he returned slowly, “ I 
should not need to ask all the questions I have put to 
you.” 

To my mind his evasion of the truth was painful and 
perceptible. If he had answered me frankly “Yes,” I 
should not perhaps have dared to ask more. If he had 
said “No,” I should have believed him. As it was, I felt 
that he had evaded my question. From that moment a 
strong conviction that the squire knew who I was — knew, 
in fact, my whole history — took possession of me. 

“You hope then, Gracia, to live by your music?” he 
asked suddenly. 

“ Yes,” I answered quietly. 

“We will see what can be done. I must think matters 
over,” he said. “ You seem to have read a great deal.” 

I looked round the grand old library with considerable 
pride. 

“Yes,” I replied ; “I have read most of the books in 
this room, many of them two or three times.” 

“We must have a chat about them some day,” he said. 
“ I have almost forgotten what books are here — I have 
been away so many years.” He repeated the final words 
softly to himself — “ So many years ! ” 

From that I gathered that I was not to be driven from 
Heron’s Nest because its master had returned. 

“ In the meantime, sir, will you tell me what to do ?” I 
asked. “ I cannot mix with the servants. Find me a 
place in your household where I shall not be forced to as- 
sociate with them.” 

His lips quivered. 

“ I will think over it,” he said slowly. “ Meanwhile be 
patient, Gracia, be patient. I will see you again.” 

And that, I knew, was an intimation that I might go. I 
went ; but life was not the same for me again— I felt so 
sure that the squire knew my whole history. 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


19 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Gracia, how did you get on ivith the squire ?’' “ Are 

you going away?” “Does he know anything about 
you ? ” 

Such were the questions that assailed me the whole of 
the day, from Mrs. Paterson down to the lowliest hand- 
maiden in the place. None of the servants resented the 
fact that I did not care for their society, and I could not 
but admit that their curiosity was only natural. They all 
wanted to know what the squire had said when he found 
that a young girl had been brought up in his household 
without his knowledge ; but I felt that all their interest 
was kindly meant. 

It was I myself wlio felt so strange. I was sure the 
squire knew something of me that he would not tell ; I 
had read it in his eyes. Perhaps I was the daughter of 
some old friend of liis ; but, if so, why all this secrecy ? 
There was no need for it. My heart and my head ached 
more than ever with the burden of the question, “ Who 
am I ? ” 

I thought the squire would be dignified, and avoid me ; 
but, to my surprise, on the morning following our conver- 
sation in the library, he sent for me. This interview dif- 
fered from the last ; he did not look at me or question me 
so much. 

“ I gathered from what you said to me yesterday, Gracia, 
that you have been accustomed to use the library?” 

“Yes,” I answered ; “it was my one place of refuge.” 

“ And I have taken it from you.” 

“You are master here ; it is your right,” I answered. 

“Then I will be a generous master, for I will give up 
my right to 'that room to you.” 

It was not merely the kindness of his words that affected 
me ; it was the tacit acknowledgment of our social equality. 
These words proved to me that I was not the daughter of 
one of his servants. He would not have offered the use 
of his library to Mrs. Paterson or to any of her relatives. 
My heart beat proudly as I recognized the supreme im- 
portance of this fact to myself. 

“ I should not like your studies to be interfered with, 
Gracia,” he went on, “especially if you wish to make any 
progress in music. Let us make this arrangement. I 


20 


JN C CUPID'S NET. 

pass my mornings out-of-doors, and my afternoons with 
my books. I will leave you the mornings, and you can 
spend the time in tlie way you like best.” 

This from the proud squire of Heron’s Nest ! He was 
never proud to me after that. 

During the next three days I saw him frequently, and it 
struck me that his face always wore a look of anxious 
brooding care, as though in his mind he were debating 
some weighty matter. 

Ah, how I longed to throw myself upon my knees at his 
feet, and ask him to solve the mystery that shrouded me ! 
He could do it ; I felt sure he could ! 

On the evening of each of these three days he sent for 
me to sing some of my own compositions to him ; he pro- 
fessed himself delighted. 

“What a gift )"ou have, child ! ” he said. “Your name 
will be famous one of these days.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” I asked eagerly. 

“ I am sure of it, although I may not live to see that 
day.” 

“ But you look strong,” I said ; “you are not old, though 
your hair is white.” 

“I have lived,” he answered, “for many years with a 
rankling wound in my heart. The day will come when I 
shall die of it, and I care not how soon.” 

There grew up a strange intimacy between us. We 
were so near together yet so far apart. At times I read 
love in his eyes, at others something like aversion. 

He came into the library on the second day after our 
arrangement was made, and found me engrossed in the 
intricacies of one of Chopin’s difficult pieces. He 
stood for a few minutes behind my chair ; then, with his 
own hands he lifted mine from the keys and looked at 
them. 

“You have beautiful bands, Gracia;” he said — “the very 
hands for music.” He looked at them until his eyes were 
dim with tears. 

Every time I saw him, every hour I passed with him, 
deepened the mystery that lay between us. One day I 
was out in the garden, attending to some favorite flowers, 
when he came up to me. 

“You like hollyhocks, Gracia ?” he said. 

“ Yes,” I answered, “ very much. I love those verses in 
which Tennyson has enshrined them.” 

“Does it ever occur to you,” he asked, “how exact Ten- 


AV CUPID'S NE7\ 


21 


iiyson is in his description of n thing ? IIo^vv accurate that 
one line is — 

‘ ‘ ‘ Heavily hangs the hollyhock ! ’ 


It does hang heavily. See how it bends with its own 
weight. Do you remember another line of his — 


“ ‘ Black as ash-buds in March ? ’ 


I smiled to myself when I read it. I was in a distant land 
tlien ; but I remembered how black tlie ash-buds were. 
Few other poets, to my mind, choose words so wisely or so 
well. I learned some grim lessons through him.” 

Had he loved a Guinevere or a Vivien, I wondered, that 
he should say that ? 

I entered the picture-gallery one morning, and found 
liim there. He was walking up and down, his face wear- 
ing its usual expression of deep thought and anxious con- 
sideration. After greeting me, he said rather abruptly : 

“ Gracia, do you like money ? ” 

“ I find that a very difficult question to answer,” was my 
reply, “ for the simple reason that I never had any.” 

“Tell me, dear,” he continued, laying his trembling hands 
on my shoulders, and seeming quite to forget the difference 
and the distance between us, “would you like to be rich — 
to have money, houses, and land ? ” 

After a moment’s thought, I answered : 

“ I would far rather have some one to love me than have 
all the riches in the world.” 

“ Poor child ! ” said the squire tenderly. “ If,” he went 
on, after a pause, “you could have your choice between 
wealth and love, you would choose love ? ” 

“ I am sure of it ! ” was my quick reply. “ I have lived 
in the world for seventeen years, and no one has loved me 
yet. My heart hungers for love.” 

“ Poor child ! ” he said again ; and after that he seemed 
more thoughtful than before. 

Another morning I found him in the library, writing 
busily. He looked up when I entered, and smiled. 

“ This is a terrible breach of our agreement,” he said. 
“You must excuse me this one morning, Gracia; I have 
something that I must do. I wonder,” he added, in a 
dreamy tone, “what impels me to write it to-day. Do, do 
not go,” he said, as I turned to leave the room. “You will 


2 .'^ 


IN CCriD\S NET. 


not disturb nriQ ; on the contrary, I feel that I shall write 
better for seeing you. Sit down to your books, Gracia.” 

I did as he bade me — took my books into the sunny bay- 
window, and read, pausing now and again to glance at the 
.squire. 

My eyes, as though fascinated, followed his movements. 
I saw him open several private drawers in his escritoire, 
drawers that were evidently known only to himself, from 
which he took one or two letters. When he had finished 
the long epistle he was writing, he looked up and said : 

“Gracia, will you send Mrs. Paterson and James Gray- 
stone to me ? I want them to witness this.” He did not 
say what “this” was, but I saw a sheet of parchment 
closely written over. “ Come back when they are gone,” 
he added. 

It struck me that, when the housekeeper and the butler 
reappeared, they both looked very important ; but they 
said nothing ; and I went back to the library, as the squire 
had told me. 

I remember, just as though it had happened yesterday, 
every detail of what followed. The squire was standing 
up as I re-entered. On the table before him lay the small 
sheets of parchment, two or three long strips of printed 
paper, and several letters, one of which was in a violet en- 
velope. The color struck me — it was a pale faded violet. 
Another envelope was fastened with light blue ribbon, a 
third was sealed with light blue wax. He took all these, 
together with the closely-written letter that he liad just fin- 
ished, and tied them together. I saw him write several 
words on the outside paper ; but I could not tell what the 
words were. Then he sat down and looked fixedly at the lit- 
tle parcel. Heliad tied it with red tape. In an idle manner 
he cut the ends of the tape and fastened them with wax. 
I remember the shape of the little parcel so well, and I 
also remember wondering if I should ever see it again. 
The writing-table was covered with old books, a map of 
the county lay on it wide open, with several other things. 
I went on reading for a few minutes ; then, as the squire 
seemed to be absorbed in thought, I felt that I had better 
leave him. 

Shortly afterward Mrs. Paterson came to me in my sol- 
itary little room at the top of the house. 

“ Gracia,” she said, looking earnestly at me, “ has the 
squire said anything about helping you ?” 

For the first time I rebelled against the question so kind- 


IN CUPID'S NET, 


23 


ly meant. I felt as though there were something between 
the squire and myself which was sacred and was not to be 
intruded upon by strangers. 

“Not at present,” I answered rather coldly; “but he 
seems interested in my music.” 

“Now, Gracia,” said the housekeeper, “take my advice. 
Speak frankly to the squire. I am sure he is a kind- 
hearted man. Tell him what you want to begin life with. 
You ought to go to one of the grand music-schools in Lon- 
don or Paris, and he would send you to one if you were to 
ask him.” 

“ I -will think it over,” I replied. 

“ Do,” urged the good woman. “You see, Gracia, time 
is hying.” 

When the housekeeper had gone, I thought long and 
deeply over what she had said ; but I could not decide what 
to do. I felt that between myself and the squire there was 
something that no one else understood. Still I resolved 
to speak to him that very evening about my future. 

Tlie afternoon was a delightful one ; there was a crisp 
coldness in the air that made it a luxury to breathe. I had 
gone into the garden to gather some richly-colored maple- 
leaves, which, with some flowers, I thought would form a 
pretty nosegay. The -squire was pacing up and down one 
of the walks with a thoughtful air ; but, when he saw me, 
his face brightened, and he came quickly to my side. 

“ I was just wishing that you were here, Gracia,” he said. 
“ I have been listening to the chime of the Heronsdale 
bells. What do you think they say to me ? They say, 
‘Long ago — long ago ! ’ Such a mournful chime ; it has 
depressed me. The sound of your fresh young voice and 
of your merry laughter will be an agreeble change. I want 
you to talk to me and make me laugh.” 

“I will do my best,” I answered, “although I find but 
little in life to laugh at.” 

Over the meadows came the sweet sound of the bells, 
and, as I heard them, I felt some of the depression that had 
fallen upon the squire. To me, too, they seemed to say, 
“ Long ago — long ago ! ” What was his “ long ago ” like, I 
wondered. He turned to me so suddenly that he startled me. 

“ Do you believe, Gracia,” he said, “ that a wrong can 
be righted ? ” 

“ fshould think so, unless death intervenes,” I answered ; 
and the words might have been those of a prophetess of 
evil. 


24 


IN CUPID\S NET. 


‘‘ How do you mean ? ” he asked eagerly. 

“ I mean that a wrong can be righted, unless death steps 
in before it is accomplished, and so prevents it. 

He stood silent for a few moments, while I went on gath- 
ering the pretty maple-leaves. Then he cried out to me 
— and his voice was broken with sobs : 

“Gracia, Gracia, I am going to right a wrong ! I must 
do it ! I have a heaviness and a strange foreboding to- 
day. Those bells have unnerved me with their mournful 
^ Long ago — long ago ! ’ ” 

He raised my face in his hands and kissed my forehead. 

“ Yes, Gracia, I am going to right a great wrong. I shall 
ride over to Heronsdale at once and see a lawyer I know 
there ; then I shall telegraph to London for Mr. Graham.” 

How my heart beat ! — for I felt sure that I was asso- 
ciated with it. 

“Tell me,” I cried — “have I anything to do with it ?” 

He looked at me eagerly, earnestly, and was on the point 
of speaking, but stopped abruptly. What was he going to 
say ? Was I the child of some dear dead friend whom he 
had wronged, and was he now going to set that wrong 
right ? 

“To-night,” he said, “I shall have a surprise for you. 
When I come home, you must join me in the library, and 
I will tell you then all you want to know.” 

I fell upon my knees before liim with a passionate cry. 

“Tell me now,” I pleaded ; “ I have waited years for the 
knowledge ! Have pity on me, and tell me now ! ” I felt 
that the color had left my face, and my lips trembled so 
that I could hardly speak. 

“ Tell me ! ” I entreated. “ I cannot live in this sus- 
pense.” 

“You shall know all to-night, Gracia,” he returned, 
gently. “ There are several matters to be settled first, 
and I must see a lawyer.” 

“You promise to tell me who I am, all my histor}*, who 
my parents are ? Oh, Heaven, how shall I live until 
night ? ” ' 

“ I promise faithfully,” he replied. 

Again he kissed my forehead, and- stood for some mo- 
ments looking at me with longing eyes. Then he left me ; 
and so great was ni)^ rapture, my fear, my agitation, that I 
fell upon the grass and buried my face in it. 

I shall never forget that one hour of my life — the emo- 
tions that swayed me, the fear, the hope. What was it 


IN CUPID\S NET. 


25 


that he had to tell me ? What had I to hear ? It might 
be that I had father and mother living, that I came of a 
good family, tliat I should find a home where I should be 
loved. Or it might be that I — But I hid my face, shud- 
dering. I could not bear the reverse side of the picture. 

Then I heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs ; and, looking 
up, I saw that the squire was riding Black Prince, the 
finest horse in his stable, but one of which the grooms 
were all somewhat afraid — a spirited animal which could 
not brook restraint. I watched rider and horse until they 
disappeared among the trees. 

I should hear it at last — this story of mine. I cannot 
describe the suspense that I suffered, the agony of know- 
ing I must wait some hours before I heard it. Only to im- 
agine that I might have a mother still living, only to think 
that for me there might be a home somewhere, gave me a 
sensation of rapture. Loveless, joyless, and desola'te as my 
life had been, something was about to happen now that I 
hoped would brighten it. 

The memory of that afternoon, with its balmy air, its 
sunny warmth, its odor of autumn flowers, will remain 
with me until I die. 

I remember how I sat upon the grass, weaving sweet 
fancies. At last I should have a name, a home, and friends ! 
At last I should be as others were ! 

I could not go back to the house ; it seemed to me as 
though I should not be able to breathe there. I felt that I 
must be out in the open air, with the weaving branches 
about me. My whole soul was on fire with impatience. 

I have read that, when a soldier condemned to die stands 
before the rifles that are pointed at him, in the one mo- 
ment before they are fired he lives through the agony of a 
lifetime. So, in these hours during wdiich I waited, I 
passed through the pain of years. I saw that the sun 
w'ould soon begin to set, for the clouds in the w^est w^ere 
growing crimson, and the birds were winging their w^ay 
homeward. The soft shadows of evening were falling ; the 
wind stirred the leaves of the trees ; afar off I heard the 
rush of the river. When the sun rose on the morrow, 
when the birds began to sing, I should know all — know 
my name and my fate. To-morrow, to-morrow ! Oh, w’as 
there anyw^here in this wide world a heart that loved me, 
a heart w^aiting for me ? 

Hours must pass — hours, not minutes — before I should 
see the squire again. I tried by w^alking, to reduce the 


26 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


fever of impatience that consumed me. I went through 
tlie woods, and at last came to a white gate that led from 
a field to the river. Here I paused, and saw what I imag- 
ined to be a knot of laboring men standing by the river- 
bank. They were talking together, and busy — I could not 
see what they were doing — with a rope. I waited some 
little time watching the scene, and then walked slowly 
home. 


CHAPTER IV. 

When I reached the manor-house, I saw, to my surprise, 
little groups of men standing about on the lawn. The 
western sky was all aflame tlien, and a ruddy light fell 
upon house and trees. 

Swiftly Mrs. Paterson came up to me. 

“ Oh, Gracia,” she cried, “ do you know — have you 
heard ?” 

I flung my arms round the sturdy branch of the cedar 
against which I was leaning. A blow was coming, I felt ; 
but I did not dream in what manner it would fall. 

“Come with me quickly,” she said. “ I am sure that he 
wants to speak ; but I cannot understand him.” 

“ Who wants to speak ? ” I asked. 

“ The squire,” she replied. “ Oh, Gracia, do you not 
know ? The squire has been thrown from his horse into 
the river, and he is dying ! ” 

Dying ! Oh, Heaven ! And with closed lips — lips that 
might never utter another word ! 

The ruddy light, the dark branches of the cedar, the white 
faces of the men, all seemed to mingle, and I fell forward 
upon the grass The blow to my hopes was terrible. I 
had expected to hear my story that night, and the only lips 
that could tell it to me were closing in death ! 

Presently the giddiness passed off, and I rose to my feet. 
Mrs. Paterson looked at me with evident displeasure. 

“This will not do, Gracia,” she said severely. “ I come 
to ask you to help me, and you give way to your feel- 
ings.” 

“ I was so shocked and startled,” I answered confusedly. 

“ So was I,” she said ; “ but I did not faint. You must 
come with me, Gracia. You will understand the squire 
better than any of us can. He has talked so much to 
you.” 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


27 


“ But,” I cried, seizing her hands in my agitation, “he 
is not dying — oh, surely — surely not dying!” 

“I am afraid so,” she answered mournfully. 

I felt stunned. It could not be — it could not possibly 
be that he was dying with my story untold. Poor miser- 
able me ! After all my hopes, to be so cruelly disappoint- 
ed ! It was more bitter than death. Alas, for my sweet 
fancies ! I should never know now the clasp of a mother’s 
arms or the sound of a father’s voice. 

“ Come ! ” said Mrs. Paterson. 

“ How did it happen ? ” I asked, as we walked slowly up 
the grand staircase. 

“ No one knows,” was the answer. “The squire tried 
to cross the river near tlie fording-stones instead of passing 
over the bridge. The grooms think that Black Prince 
shied at the stones. Anyway, he Hung the master there. 
The doctors say the squire must have been lying there at 
least two hours.” 

“ He fell into the water then ? ” I cried. 

“ No, he was thrown upon the stones, but the water 
reached him. None of us knew anything of the accident 
until Black Prince came home without his master. Then 
we felt that something serious had happened. Some of the 
men-servants were out to look for their master, and they 
met a laboring-man running to the Hall to tell us that the 
squire was lying on the fording-stones. They went there 
directly, and found that he was still alive, and they brought 
him home. The doctors from Heronsdale are still with 
him ; but they say they can do nothing. He is beyond 
mortal help — the poor squire ! ” 

Mrs. Paterson went into the room first, and had some 
conversation witli the doctors. Then they both came out 
into the corridor, looking very grave. 

“ There is no hope,” said one — Doctor Benson, of Her- 
onsdale. “ It is useless for us to remain ; still we will stay 
if you wish it.” 

“Oh, do, sir!” sobbed Mrs. Paterson. “It seems such 
a sad thing for the poor gentleman to die without kith or 
kin near him.” 

“ Has he no relatives ? ” asked Dr. Lyons, who was a 
new-comer. 

“ Some very distant ones — the Caryls ; but all I know 
of them is that they are not in England just now. I heard 
the squire say so one day.” 

“ He has been making desperate efforts to speak,” said 


28 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


Dr. Lyonl. “ I suppose you have no idea what he 
wants ? ” 

“ No,” the housekeeper replied. 

‘‘ Do you knov/ if he has made his will ?” was the next 
question. 

“Yes,” was the answer; he made it this morning. He 
sent for the butler and for me, and asked us both to wit- 
ness it.” 

“ Then I wonder what it is that he is trying to say ? ” 
said the doctor. 

“ I think I know,” I interposed. “ This afternoon the 
squire told me that he wished to see me in the library to- 
night, for he had something of importance to tell me. He 
knows my history, and he said that he would tell it to me 
this evening.” 

“ Poor child ! ” said Dr. Lyons. “ He will take that story 
with him into another world ; he will never tell it in 
this.” 

I was in despair. 

“ Do not,” I cried, “ let him die until he has told me ! 
He said that there was a great wrong to be set right.” 

“ It is too late,” answered Dr. Lyons gravely ; “ he will 
set no wrong right now. Was it of vital consequence to 
you ? ” he asked. 

“ He is the only person who knows anything about me, 
who can tell me my name and who I am.” 

“Come into the room,” said Dr. Lyons. “Perhaps it is 
of you he is trying to speak.” 

We entered the apartment together — the doctors to 
watch the effect of my presence, I to see if it were indeed 
too late. 

The room was large and lofty and handsomely furnished. 
I knew it well, for I had often been in it while the squire 
was away. There was a lovely view from the windows ; the 
blue line in the distance was the sea. A few fine pictures, 
chiefly views of Italian lakes and mountains, hung on the 
walls. On the great state-bed lay tlie squire, but so 
changed — so changed! One would hardly have recognized 
him. The blue eyes were closed, and the gray shadow of 
death lay over his face. Ah, why was it that when I saw 
him so my heart melted within me ? I forgot the doctors 
and the housekeeper ; I forgot everything except that the 
only man in the world who had ever spoken kindly to me 
lay there dying. I knelt down by his bedside, and burst 
into a passionate fit of weeping. 


IN CUPID'S NET, 


29 


“ Hush, Gracia,” said the housekeeper; “you will dis- 
turb him ! ” 

The squire must have heard the name, for he opened 
his eyes. He knetv me ; his dying eyes rested on my face 
with a look that must haunt me until my own close forever 
— a look of intense love and longing. I turned my liead 
away, sick at heart. It was a gaze no one could bear un- 
moved. 

“ He knows you,” said Dr. Lyons. 

Ah, yes, he knew me ! He tried to hold out his poor 
feeble hands, but they dropped upon the coverlet. 

“ Speak to him,” said the doctor. 

I bent over him. 

“ Squire,” I said, “ do you know me ? ’ 

Ah yes there was not a doubt of it ! There was a faint flash 
in his eyeSf a slight tinge of color came into his face. I took 
one of his hands in mine, but it was deathly cold. He knew 
me, for he made a terrible effort to speak to me. He tried 
so hard to utter one word, while we, all powerless to help 
him, stood round. 

At last I took courage. I bent- over him and whispered 
in his ear : 

“ Squire, is it of me — is it of Gracia you wish to speak ?” 

The poor lips parted and moved, but no sound came from 
them. 

“ You want to tell me who I am ?” I said eagerly. 

Again he made a desperate effort to speak ; it was in 
vain. He sunk back with an air of exhaustion and despair. 

And yet his despair could hardly have been greater than 
mine. If he did not speak again, there was nothing for 
me to look forward to but a blank and desolate future. 
In my anguish I turned to Dr. Lyons. 

“Can you not give him anything to restore his power of 
speech ?” I asked quickly. 

“ No,” he answered gravely. “ He is quite conscious : 
but lie will never speak again.” 

I cried out in my despair. Surely, after my joyless life. 
Heaven would not be so cruel to me as to be deaf to my 
prayers ! — and yet, looking upon the squire’s pallid face, 
I knew there was no hope. 

“ It is a great trouble to you,” said Dr. Lyons, looking 
compassionately at me. 

“ Greater than death itself,” I answered. 

I knew that the dying man heard me by the pained ex- 
pression that came over his face. He made another great 


30 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


effort, and drew me to him. Ah, why, why did his hand 
seek my face and my hair ? What instinct made me kiss 
it, even while my tears "fell fast upon it ? 

“ If he could only speak to me ! ” I cried. “ If he could 
but speak ! One word would change the whole world to 
me ; and he meant to tell me all to-night.” 

Then I bethought myself that I was allowing my great 
sorrow to make me selfish. I was suffering perhaps the 
sharpest trouble that anyone could endure ; but, after all, 
the squire was dying — dying without kith or kin near him. 

So I kissed the nerveless hands and smoothed the white 
hair. I laid my face, so rosy with health, near his. I heard 
one of the doctors say softly to the housekeeper, “ What is 
she to him ?” and the answer was “ nothing.” The squire 
did not hear it. He lay very still while I knelt by him ; 
but I saw tears come into his eyes. 

“ He is weeping,” I said to Dr. Lyons. “ He must hear 
and understand, or that could not happen.” 

Then I felt his arm close round me. He drew my head 
down to his breast, and he tried to whisper, but I heard 
nothing except a confused sound. Suddenly he raised him- 
self — it seemed to me by a superhuman effort ; his face 
brightened, and in a loud voice he cried, “Millicent — Mil- 
licent ! ” His eyes looked as though they were gazing 
upon some bright vision. Then just as suddenly he fell 
back into my arms, dead ; and my last hope died with him. 


CHAPTER V. 

I TOLD my story to the doctor who had been so kind to 
me. He sympathized with me in my great trouble, and 
did his best to cheer me. 

“ It is very sad,” he said. “ The poor squire had evi- 
dently something to say to you, if he could have spoken 
the world would probably have been very different to you.” 

As it was, standing by the squire’s death-bed, I knew 
that henceforward I should be nameless, penniless, friend- 
less — that the roof that had hitherto sheltered me would 
no longer do so. I should lose, besides, the few advan- 
tages I had had before. But the greatest, keenest grief of 
all was that, even if I had a mother living, I should never 
know it. 

For a little while I had a faint hope that the squire 


I A' CUriD^S NET. 


31 


might have reached Heronsdale and seen the lawyer, and 
that some part of my story might be known to him ; but I 
found that he had not. The accident took place as he was 
on his way thither. So ended all my joyful anticipations. 

Before the funeral I went to take a last look at the squire. 
As I gazed at him, lying so calm and still, with a smile on 
his face, the quaint lines came into my mind — 

“Thank Heaven the crisis, 

The danger is past, 

And the lingering illness 
Is over at last, 

And the fever called ‘ living * 

Is conquered at last ! 

“ Sadly I know 
I am shorn of my strength, 

And no muscle I move 
As I lie at full length ; 

But no matter — I feel 
I am better at length.” 

The appropriateness of the words struck me as . stood 
beside him. The fever called “ living " was .ndeed over 
with him at last. All the passions that had surged within 
that quiet breast were still. There was no more to suffer 
or to enjoy. The fair face of a woman would never again 
cause him torture, nor would her falseness grieve him. 
The ‘‘fever” was ended. Never would tears of love or 
anguish come from the closed eyes ; never would .sighs or 
tender words come from the sealed lips. 

“ The moaning and groaning. 

The sighing and sobbing 
Are quieted now.” 

What had he seen — Millicent as he knew her in life, 
fair and lovely — or was it the last of a long series of vis- 
ions that had passed before him ? 

Because his roof had sheltered me, because I had been 
fed and clothed at his expense, because he was the only 
one who had seemed to care for me — above all, because 
he was the one in whose heart my story had been shrined 
— I stooped and kissed the face of the dead man. It 
seemed to me that as I did so a smile stole over it. 

When Mr. Graham came, I told him all that had passed 
between the squire and myself. He seemed very puzzled. 

“ I can throw no light upon the mysteiy,” he said ; “but 


32 


IN CUPID\S NET. 


I promise you one thing, Gracia. All the squire’s papers 
must pass through my hands, and, if I see anything that 
concerns you, I will tell you of it.” 

I thanked him, but felt thatit was slight consolation. It 
did not seem very probable that there would be much con- 
cerning me in the dead man’s papers. 

The squire was buried^ in the old family vault in the 
churchyard, where the Dacres for many generations had 
slept. After the funeral there was a great commotion in 
the house when it was discovered that there was no will. 
It seemed incredible, for both housekeeper and butler de- 
clared that they had signed one as witnesses. They were 
interrogated separately and together ; but their testimony 
was always the same. The squire had told Gracia to send 
them to the library, where he awaited them. He had laid 
before them a closely-written sheet of parchment, telling 
them it was his will, and asked them to witness his signa- 
ture. The squire signed first, and then they wrote their 
names. They did not see what he had done with the 
parchment. They had been too much astonished to notice 
anything. 

The library was searched, the squire’s escritoire, every 
probable and improbable place, but without result. I told 
Mr. Graham that I had seen the squire tie up a packet of 
letters, including that which he had written himself. A 
more vigorous search was made, but the little parcel could 
not be found. In the waste-paper basket, however, there 
were several letters all torn into the minutest shreds. 
Some, Mr. Graham said, were in the squire’s handwriting ; 
and, strange to say, we discovered fragments of a sheet of 
parchment. 

“There can be but one solution to this mystery,” said 
the lawyer to the vicar and the other gentlemen who had 
assisted him in the search. “ The squire evidently made 
his will and wrote some letters, then destroyed all ! ” 

Mr. Graham remained for some days at the manor-house. 
He seemed to like talking to me, and would send for me to 
sing and to play to him. One day, emboldened by his 
kindness, I asked him what would become of all the 
squire’s property and money. 

“ They will go to his next of kin,” he replied. 

“I thought he was alone in the world?” I said in some 
surprise. 

“The relatives that are left are distant enough. Lady 
Caryl is his second cousin, and Sir Adrian is her son.” 


AV CUPJD^S NET. 


33 


“ Sir Adrian Caryl ! I said to myself. To me the 
sound of the name was inexpressibly sweet. 

“Sir Adrian is a very fortunate young man,” continued 
the lawyer. “ He is already very rich. But it seems a 
pity that the name should change. It has always been 
Dacre of Heron’s Nest ; now* it will be Caryl.” 

“Will they live here?” I asked in bewilderment. “Will 
they come to Heron’s Nest ? ” 

“I should think so. Heron’s Nest and all that it con- 
tains belong now to Sir Adrian Caryl.” 

“Is he married ? ” I inquired, hesitatingly. 

“ No, he is not married,” replied Mr. Graham ; “ but I 
have heard that he is much attached to a beautiful young 
heiress, Lady Annabel Leith. I should strongly advise 
you to stay here until the Caryls come.” 

“ Will everything belonging to the squire really go to 
him ? ” I asked. “ How strange it seems ! ” 

“ Everything,” replied the lawyer. “ I do not think,” he 
added, musingly, “ that the poor squire’s wealth could have 
gone to a better man. Adrian Caryl is very clever too, 
and in my opinion will be a famous man one of these days. 
Lady Caryl is quite wrapped up in him. In these degen- 
erate times a son to be proud of is somewhat rare.” 

I had been so completely shut off from the world and 
knew so little of natural affection that it was delightful to 
me to hear of such deep motherly love. I longed for him 
to tell me more. All the brightness and beauty of the 
world seemed to be opening out to me. 

Mr. Graham was most kind, and gave me the benefit of 
his advice. 

“You cannot make your way in the world alone,” he 
said, “ and the best thing you could do would be to secure 
the friendship of two ladies like Lady Caryl and Lady 
Aditha Glynn. Stay here by all means ! You need have 
no hesitation in doing so, as you have already been here 
so long.” 

So it was arranged that I sliould remain ; and, after all, I 
was not sorry, for I had grown to love Heron’s Nest dearly. 

I lived on at the manor-house, absorbed in my music. 
At times we heard from Mr. Graham, and it was under- 
stood that the Caryls would take possession about Christ- 
mas. Every day something came from them — cases of 
pictures, statuary, securely packed, loads of ornamental 
furniture ; and Heron’s Nest soon wore quite a different 
aspect. 


3 


34 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


Scarcely anything else was discussed in the neighbor- 
hood but the coming of the Caryls. One of the under 
servants had lived in a house where Lady Caryl visited, 
and she described her as being very handsome and stately, 
but proud. The old manor-house she said would not seem 
like the same place under her rule. 

December came, and Mrs. Paterson had received several 
letters from Lady Caryl. What orders they contained ! 
There must be fires in every room in the house ; Lady 
Caryl could not endure cold. There must be an abun- 
dance of flowers ; Lady Caryl could not live without flow- 
ers. Her ladyship could not give the exact date when 
they would arrive ; but they might reach Heron’s Nest 
either on the day before Christmas Eve or on that day it- 
self. 

The coming of the Caryls would be the turning-point of 
my life ; nothing would be the same afterward. So I 
waited in silence and patience. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The twenty-third of December, and the travellers had 
not yet arrived. All was in readiness for them. Cheerful 
fires burned in most of the rooms, and there was every- 
where an abundance of hot-house flowers ; the whole 
house seemed to be filled with the odor of them. Every- 
thing looked bright and fresh ; and I thought in my heart 
what a fortunate being Lady Caryl was. 

It was an ideal Christmas. The snow had been falling 
for several days — falling until the earth was an unbroken 
expanse of white, falling until it covered the bare branch- 
es of the trees and the leaves of the laurels and hollies. 
How beautiful it was, the soft white snow ! Then came 
an intensely cold wind, and the snow grew hard — so hard, 
indeed, that when on Christmas Eve the sun shone out of 
the wintry sky, it did not melt it. I thought I had never 
beheld a prettier scene. The scarlet berries of the holly 
gleamed among the glossy green leaves, the sun threw a 
ruddy glow over the snow, and shone upon the white ici- 
cles that hung from hedges and trees until they glittered 
like huge diamonds. 

There had never been any particular celebration of 
Christmas that I could remember at Heron’s Nest. Now, 


JA^ CUPID'S ATET. 


35 


for the first time, I saw what Christmas was like in an old- 
fashioned country mansion. Great wreaths of evergreens, 
the red-berried holly and the glossy-leaved laurel, the 
mistletoe with its mystical berries, the laurestinus with its 
pretty flowers, the sombre-looking fir, were everywhere 
used for decorations. The bright fires, the profusion of 
flowers, the lovely evergreens, all combined, gave the 
whole mansion a cheerful, glowing, homely look that de- 
lighted me. 

On the morning of Christmas Eve a letter came to say 
that Sir Adrian and Lady Caryl would reach Heron’s Nest 
that evening, and that they would dine at eight. So they 
were coming at last.! What would their coming bring 
to me ? 

I remember how slowly the hours of that day passed ; 
and, when afternoon came, the colors of the earth and the 
sky were so beautiful that I could stay indoors no longer. 
The cold was intense. As the sun set, the solemnity of 
the scene impressed me deeply. All sounds were hushed, 
except the murmur of the wind among the trees, and the 
swift rush of the river between its high banks. It did not 
seem to me so very long since I had sat at the window of 
the housekeeper’s room, watching the Christmas stars and 
wondering what they would bring to me. 

I watched the deep blue of the sky fade into the dark- 
ness of night ; and when the soft light of the moon fell 
upon the snow, the effect was magical. My heart was full 
of rapture. All the poetry lying dormant within me awoke 
into sudden life. I watched the stars come out ; and there, 
shining among them, was the bright star that I called my 
Christmas star. 

I had forgotten the coming visitors ; I thought of noth- 
ing but the snow and the stars — the mystery and beauty 
of Christmas. I did not heed whither my footsteps led 
me, until I found myself close to what we called the 
postern-gate, a green door let into a thick wall covered 
with ivy, the ivy now being covered with snow and form- 
ing one of the prettiest little pictures conceivable, I thought, 
as I stood looking at it. The starlight fell upon it, and it 
seemed to me that one star — my Christmas star — had never 
shone with so bright a light as it did then. O beautiful 
star, whither had you led me ? 

Presently, as things are sometimes revealed in a dream, 
I saw a face grow, as it were, out of the ivy ; and then I 
perceived that some one was standing just within the 


36 


JX CUPID\S XET. 


doorway, looking out upon the snow-covered moonlit 
landscape. No cry escaped me ; I felt no fear. I had 
always fancied that the light of my Christmas star would 
take me to some one whom I could love, and its rays had 
brought me hither. 

I looked up in admiration. Some one, describing tlie 
face of a great Saxon king, called it “fair, frank, and true.” 
Were truth and franknes's ever more clearly written than 
on the face of the young man before me ? He liad a 
noble-looking head and sunny brown hair ; his eyes were 
blue — laughing eyes, keen and bright, with dark, strongly- 
marked brows ; his face was clear-cut like a cameo, full of 
power and pride, yet so winning in its fair beauty that no 
woman could look at it unmoved. Hither the light of the 
star had brought me, and this was what its rays fell upon. 
I saw a tall manly figure, strongly-built, yet with an easy 
grace and bearing ; and my heart went out to it. 

The dreams and hopes of my life seemed to have reached 
a crisis. I had always felt that the Christmas star which 
liad attracted me meant more for me than it did for others ; 
I had always cherished a curious dreamy hope about it ; 
and now it seemed to me that the star itself had led me to 
the old postern-gate. And who was here waiting for me ? 

It mattered not. Whoever it was, I had a strange feel- 
ing that henceforward my life would be changed and bound 
up in his. 

The wind suddenly stirred the ivy-leaves ; the soft snow 
fell from them — fell upon them — and then he saw me. He 
started, and uttered a faint exclamation of surprise, then 
moved from the postern-gate. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said. “ Do you want to go in ? ” 

.“No,” I answered, shyly. 

Our eyes met, and it seemed to me that in that moment 
I lived a life-time. I could not move, and my breath came 
with difficulty. 

“ Who are you ? ” he asked curiously. 

“ I am Gracia,” I replied, forgetting for an instant that 
I had not another name. 

“ And who is Gracia,” he said lightly — “ Gracia, with 
the dark eyes ? ” 

“ I do not know,” I responded, as usual, tliinking to 
myself that I should have known if the squire had not died 
so suddenly that fatal night. 

I saw his face clear and brighten as he said : 

“ Are you the ” — he iialf hesitated here — “ the young 


AV CUPID'S NET. 


37 


lady of whom Mr. Graham spoke to me this morning ? 
We called upon him as we passed through I^ondon — I did 
at least.” 

“ I am Gracia,” I answered. 

“ I forgot to mention it to Lady Caryl,” he added. “I 
will go and see her at once. So you are Gracia ? ” 

The light of the stars seemed to have passed into the 
blue eyes that still held mine. 

“Yours is a curious story,” he said thoughtfully. “I 
must have a long talk with you about it.” 

I felt even then that I should like him to talk with me 
forever. The very sound of his voice delighted me, it was 
so rich and musical. 

He looked round with a smile. 

“May I be permitted to ask,” he said, “what Gracia is 
doing out in the cold on Christmas Eve ? ” 

“ I came out to look at the snow and the stars,” I an- 
swered ; “it is such a beautiful Christmas Eve ! ” 

“ I love Christmas Eve,” he said, slowly, “ and this is an 
ideal one. I have not seen so much snow for years. Do 
you like the snow, Gracia ? ” 

“ I could not tell you how much,” was my reply ; and it 
seemed to please him. 

The way in which he pronounced my name made it 
sound unutterably sweet in my ears. Suddenly it occurred 
to me that, although he had spoken of Lady Caryl, I could 
not be sure of his identity unless I asked him who he was. 
It must be Sir Adrian ; still I had better ask the question. 

“ Are you Sir Adrian Caryl ? ” I said. 

“Yes,” he replied ; “and a very fortunate man I am to 
succeed to this grand old heritage. Do you not think so ?” 

“I do, indeed. I am glad it has come to you,” I an- 
swered. 

“We reached Heron’s Nest earlier than we expected,” 
he went on. “ Like you, Gracia, I like to be out in the 
starlight, and so came here.” 

“We call this the postern-gate,” I remarked. “This is 
part of the old house that was built in Edvvard the Third’s 
reign.” 

“You know Heron’s Nest well ?” he said, smiling. 

“ I know and love every nook and corner in it ! ” I cried. 
“ I have lived here the greater part of my life.” 

“ It is a grand old place,” he said gently. “ But,” he 
added, quickly, “ I must not keep you standing in the cold, 
Gracia ; let us move on. Your story is indeed a strange 


3 8 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


one,” he continued, as we walked on slowly, “and I must 
say, it puzzles me. There must be some means of clearing 
up the mystery ; and, if it is to be done, I will do it.” He 
held out his hand and took mine. “You must have been 
most lonely and forlorn, poor child ! ” he said. “Now, re- 
member you have a friend. I am interested in you, and 
will take care of you, if you will trust me.” 

Trust him ! My heart had already gone out to him. I 
could only murmur words of thanks and gratitude. 

“ I must talk over the matter with Lady Caryl,” lie said ; 
“ she will know what is best to be done. I am sure she 
will be kind to you,” 

I looked at him, unable to speak simply because I 
wanted to say so much. I Avanted to tell him how I 
blessed him for his kind words, and how fervently I hoped 
that I might remain at Heron’s Nest, so that I might see 
him now and again. 

Oh, fair and beautiful star, that had brought me to him 
whom I loved from the first moment I saw him, and whom 
I shall love until I die ! 

It was a new world into which I entered. I passed in 
at the postern-gate, leaving him there looking after me, 
and I left my old life far behind. The stars seemed to 
shine more brightly, and something I had never known 
before was beating in my happy heart and making my 
cheeks burn. I did not know why it was, and I did not 
stop to ask myself. Then, before I reached the house, I 
heard the chiming of the bells over the snow, the same 
sweet old chime — “Christmas is come — Christmas is 
come!” Christmas had indeed come for me, and had 
brought me a friend. 

The radiance of the stars was in my eyes when I went 
back to the housekeeper’s room. She looked at me in 
wonder. She had never seen my face brightened with 
happiness before. 

“ Gracia,” she said severely, “where have you been? 
You must not run wild about the place now. You had 
better keep in your own room as much as possible until 
we know what my lady wishes.” 

The words did not hurt me, because I had the echo of 
those others lingering in my ears. My heart could not 
ache, because I had found a friend. 

“I should like to see Lady Caryl,” was all I said. 

“ They will pass through the hall as they go to the dining- 
room,” she answered— “ both Sir Adrian and my lady.” 


AV CUPJD\S XE7\ 


39 


Sir Adrian ! If the worthy housekeeper could have 
guessed how my heart beat at the sound of that name, she 
would have been astonished. 

I stood in the deep shadows of the gallery and saw them 
pass. He seemed even handsomer than he had seemed 
before ; she was a haughty and imperious-looking woman. 
For the first time in my life I saw a fashionable lady in 
evening dress, and Lady Caryl’s velvet and diamonds en- 
tranced me. 

Then I went to my room, and spent the remainder of 
Cliristmas Eve in watching the snow and the stars through 
the window ; but I was happy, because my heart was 
warm with love. I smile now, with tears in my eyes, when 
I think of the fervor and the passion of that love — how I 
recalled Sir Adrian’s face, his voice ; howl kissed the hand 
he had touched ; how unutterably glad and happy I was ; 
how 1 knelt down at last when the Christmas bells had 
ceased chiming and thanked Heaven for having guided 
me to happiness by the light of a star. 

I remembered the next morning the housekeeper’s warn- 
ing that I had better keep in my room ; but I had some 
feathered friends, robin-redbreasts, who always expected 
me to feed them. They congregated on the lawn every 
morning, looking out for bread-crumbs. The breakfast- 
room opened on to the lawn, and I thought I should have 
time to feed the birds before her ladyship came down. 

The sun shone brightly on the snow, the morning was 
a lovely one. My face, when I looked at it in the mirror, 
was so radiantly happy that I was half afraid lest anyone 
should note the change in it. The pretty redbreasts were 
gathered round me, eating the crumbs greedily, when sud- 
denly I heard one of the long French windows open. 
Looking up, I saw Lady Caryl. With one white jewelled 
liand she beckoned me to her, and I went. 

“Who are you ?” she asked, laying stress on the word 
“ you.” 

The inevitable question, and the inevitable answer ; 

“ I am Gracia.” 

Her face darkened. 

“Gracia?” she repeated, in a displeased tone. “I 
understood that she was a child. Come into the room. I 
wish to speak to you. Close the window ; it is cold.” 

I obeyed her, and stood before her. 

“ So you are Gracia ? ” she said. “My son was telling 
me about you last evening. It is a strange story, one t 


40 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


1 do not at all understand. Do you really mean to say 
that you know nothing about yourself, that you have no 
clew to your own history, your parentage ? ” 

“ None whatever,” I replied. 

“It is generally believed that you are a daughter of the 
late Mrs. Blencowe, a person, I understood, who was very 
reserved and reticent. What do you think yourself ” 

“1 do not think it is true,” I answered, “ because I can 
remember faintly some part of my life before I ever saw 
Mrs. Blencowe. I have a story,” I continued eagerly ; “ I 
am homeless, nameless, and friendless, but I have a story.” 
My heart smote me as I used the word “ friendless,” and I 
grew warm with the memory of the promise made to me. 

The cold proud eyes looked searchingly into mine. 

“ Why are you so sure of that ? ” she asked. 

“ The squire told me so on the very afternoon of the 
day he died, and he promised me that, when he came home 
in the evening, he would tell me my history. He said,” I 
added incautiously, “ that he was going to ‘ right a wrong.’ ” 

“ To do what ? ” asked Lady Caryl, incredulously. 

“To right a wrong,” I replied. 

“ What wrong might that be ?” she asked, coldly. 

“ I do not know. If the squire had lived a few hours 
longer, I should have known my history ; as it is, I am 
utterly ignorant of it.” 

The pride and coldness deepened in her face. 

“You do not suppose that the squire had wronged you 
in any way, do you ? ” she asked. 

“No ; 1 have never thought of such a thing,” was my 
answer. 

“ It will not do for you to encourage absurd ideas, such 
as thinking that the squire has done you a wrong, or that 
you have any right to remain here.” 

“I have had no such thought, madam,” I replied. “I 
have never had one thought of the squire which has not 
been kind and grateful,” I said warmly. 

“ Probably. There is nothing so hurtful to a young 
mind as indulging in false ideas. Try to steer clear of 
doing that. Romance is a fatal thing ; no girl ever suc- 
ceeds who is romantic.” 

I thought of the postern-gate and blushed furiously. 
What would her ladyship say if she knew of the meeting 
tliere ? 

Lady Caryl took the blush as a sign of guilt. 

“ You are romantic, I see, and I am sorry for it ; but I 


IX CUPID'S XET. 


41 


make some allowance for circumstances. Of course you 
have been dreaming that you are some great lady — that 
you have been stolen from your parents, who are anxiously 
waiting in their ancestral home to welcome you.” 

If she had been anyone but Sir Adrian’s mother, I 
should have hated her, she was so proud and s’cornful, so 
cold and haughty. She evidently mistrusted me. 

“ 1 he squire was good enough to exercise charity toward 
you for some years, but I fancy it was done unconsciously. 
I do not think he knew you were here.” 

I made no reply. 

“ I should like you to tell me yourself, who you think 
you are,” she continued ; “ tell me frankly.” 

“ I have never been able to form an idea. The most 
daring thought I have entertained is that I may be the 
daughter of a friend of the squire ; but I shall never know 
now. My story lies buried with the only person who knew 
it.” 

“ You seem to have been pretty well educated,” she said. 

And then I told her of my hope of being able to live by 
teaching music. 

“You play and sing well then?” she said. “I am de- 
lighted to hear it. I care more for music than for anything 
else. Now tell me all that passed between the squire and 
yourself during the few days you spent together.” 

I told her till — except that he had kissed me. 

“ So he died in your arms,” she said, more gently. “ That 
certainly gives you a claim on us. I must think over what 
had better be done for you. In the meantime, if I Avant 
you to play and sing to me, you will oblige me, I am sure.” 

“ I will do anything to oblige you,” I replied, thinking 
to myself that it was because she was Sir Adrian’s mother, 
and not by any means because she was Lady Caryl. 

She unbent a little before I left her ; but my eyes filled 
with tears as I went back to the lawn. She did not ask 
me to pass through the room. 

It was a rule at Heron’s Nest that every member of the 
household who could be spared, should attend church on 
Christmas Day. I did not go with the servants, nor, as a 
matter of course, wdth the family. I had a seat in the 
church at some distance from the great manor-house pew, 
but I could see everyone in it. I saw the proud, handsome 
lady who was like, yet so unlike, her son. I saw him, and 
the glory of the Christmas morning to me was complete. 

Ah, the sweet calm happiness of the Christmas morning ! 


//V’ CUPID'S NET. 


It was Christmas to me because I had found a friend. 
And my friend was one to be proud of ; in the church 
there was no one like him. His head towered above all 
the others. 

The vicar^s wife and daughter were of course at cluirch. 
Their seat was near the manor-house pew. I watched — 
may Heaven forgive me ! with jealoUs eyes. I saw that 
Miss Sale was coquettishly conscious of Sir Adrian’s pres- 
ence, She really looked beautiful in her costume of velvet 
and fur and lier prettily-trimmed bonnet. Evidently she 
admired him. I saw her look at him several times ; but he 
seemed unaware that she was gazing at him. And then, 
suddenly, while the choir was singing of “ peace on earth,” 
I found that he was watching me, that his blue eyes were 
fixed intently on me. Ah, happy yet miserable me ! I 
tried, first, to appear unconscious of it, then a burning 
crimson blush dyed my cheeks, and I buried my face in 
my hands. 

At length the service ended, and the people left the 
church. Her ladyship entered the manor-house carriage 
that was in waiting for her, and drove home ; but Sir 
Adrian joined Mr. Sale, and I saw the vicar introduce him 
to his wife and daughter. I saw, too, how the proud, fair 
face brightened for him. Was I jealous? I caught my- 
self wishing that I had fair hair and a dainty bonnet trim- 
med with holly-berries, that I had a dress of velvet and fur. 
I found myself weeping bitter tears that I was not as other 
girls ; and yet — it was the happiest day I had ever known ! 


CHAPTER VH. 

The primroses were in bloom once more. All the snow ^ 
was gone ; the cold winds had ceased to blow ; the air was 
odorous with the breath of violets ; and I — my life was so 
different that the world did not seem to be the same place 
as of old. There was only one thing that made me un- 
happy, and it was that Lady Caryl did not seem to like 
me. The change from the gloom of winter to the beauty 
of spring was not greater than the change which had come 
over my life. 

On the third day after her arrival at Heron’s Nest, Lady 
Caryl sent for me. She wlinted to hear how I could sing, 
and she professed herself delighted with the result. 


IN CUPID\S NET. 


43 




“You have a magnificent voice,” she said to me, “and 
your style is good. You want a few finishing lessons, and 
then you will be an excellent singer. How remarkable 
that you should have such a voice ! ” 

From that time she changed to me. But she never 
really liked me, and my very presence seemed to irritate 
her. She abominated mystery, and I was the very embodi- 
ment of it. 

“ I wish,” she said to me one day, “ that you had a second 
name. It is so absurd to call you Gracia.” 

“ I have just the same wish,” I answered. 

“ Why not call yourself ‘ Blencowe ’ ? ” she suggested. 
“ It would be better than nothing.” 

Because the name is not my own, and I shall never 
use it,” I replied. 

One morning — the Christmas snow was still lying on the 
ground — she sent for me, and said she wanted to talk to 
me. She had been thinking over what would be best for 
me, and she offered me the post of companion to herself. 
I was to read to her, write her letters, be at her service 
whenever she required it. It was stipulated that I was in 
no way to interfere with the lady’s-maid, a very important 
person named Kate Fisher, or “ Fisher,” as her ladyship 
called her. But, whenever Lady Caryl felt inclined for 
music, I was to sing to her. 

To my great delight, she gave me two pretty rooms 
facing the south, and my meals were to be taken there. 
She also most generously provided me with a wardrobe. 
There was nothing elaborate or expensive, but everything 
was pretty — print dresses, all pink rosebuds, some nice 
muslins, and a silk dress for my “best.” I was to have 
a salary of forty pounds a year, which seemed to me a 
fortune ; and I was unutterably happy, because every now 
and then I could see the man whom I believed to be peer- 
less. Lady Caryl told me that he was delighted at what 
she had done. 

During the first few days I did not see much of him. 
One of the first things that attracted my attention was a 
superb portrait of him. It had been painted in Rome by 
an eminent artist, and by Lady Caryl’s wish it was hung 
at the end of the picture-gallery. I often went thither to 
look at the portrait, and was never weary of gazing upon 
the sunny brown hair, the laughing blue eyes, and the 
handsome face. 

By this time — I confess it freely — I had grown to love 


44 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


that face better than anything else in the world. It was 
my star, shining ever brightly in the dark sky of my 
life. 

I suppose it was only natural that I should love him, for 
my heart was full, and up to this time I had had no one 
on whom to bestow my affection. All the love that lies 
dormant in a girl’s heart was just awakening in mine, and, 
having no other object, it fell entirely upon him. Be- 
fore I knew what I was doing, before I understood my 
own heart, before I was conscious of what was happening, 
I loved him with a love that was my doom. It never les- 
sened, never faltered, never changed.. 

I look back upon it with pity akin to tears. It was 
surely the truest, the most loving worship ever given to 
any man. It was a perfect love, because I never hoped 
or thought of any return. To me he was a hero far above 
any other man. Ah, me, how beautiful it was, this love 
which filled my heart and soul ! 

I can remember, if by chance he entered any room where 
I was, how his presence was to me like a gleam of sun- 
light. I saw nothing else then. That one face shone out 
before me ; all others were in the shadow. When he 
spoke, his voice was the only sound that reached my ears. 
While he remained in the room, I saw and heard him 
only. 

I never looked for or thought of any return. It was 
happiness for me to know that I was under the same roof 
with him, that I breathed the same air, that I looked upon 
the same scenes.” 

The time came when my very life was absorbed in my 
love ; and what a silent far-off worship it was ! How little 
he dreamed that, in the same house with him, lived one 
who loved the very sound of his footsteps ! How little he 
thought that there was one near him who would freely and 
gladly have laid down her life for him ! 

I never expected either that he Avould think much of 
me or care to speak to me. But I soon noticed that he 
liked my singing. At first he did not come into the room 
when he heard the sound of the piano ; but, after a few 
days, he w^as never absent, and would come in directly the 
first note was struck. He had the prudence not to ad- 
dress me ; but he would say to his mother, “ I should like 
to hear a little music.” While her ladyship reclined on 
her favorite couch, he would sit in the lounging-chair by 
the great bay-window. 


IN CUP7n\S NET. 


45 


Ah me, how I sung to him ! My soul seemed to rise to 
my lips and go out to him in song. On ordinaiy occa- 
sions I seldom spoke to him. I had not the courage to 
raise my eyes to his face ; but I could sing out the whole 
love of my heart to him, and I did. At times he would 
say to me as he left the room, “ I thank you, Gracia ; ” at 
other times he would simply bow as he passed me. But 
to know that I had been singing to him, to know that I 
had given him pleasure, was the greatest delight I had in 
the world. In my dreams — ah, those happy dreams ! — he 
used to thank me with gentle words for my songs — used 
to look into my eyes and clasp my hands ; but in real life 
I hardly dared to think of my dreams. That they should 
ever be realized was inconceivable. 

So in silence, and with ever growing fervor, I loved this 
ideal that I had made for myself. The great window 
where lie sat was like a shrine to me ; the flowers on which 
his hand rested were sacred. The passion of my love 
seemed to fill my life ; but it was never told, no word of 
mine gave a clew to it. No one guessed it. The proud 
stately mother w’ho worshipped this, her only son, the 
friends who visited him, the servants who waited upon 
him — no one ever suspected that the Gracia, who had no 
second name, loved that handsome young heir of Heron’s 
Nest." 

I thought of the moth and the star. Later on I read 
the story of Elaine. I read stories and poems of girls who 
had given their hearts unsought for, and whose love had 
not been returned. They all died in the end ; but that did 
not frighten me. I felt I would rather love him all my 
life without hope of return, and die of the bitter pain in 
the end, than win the passionate love of another. 

Lady Caryl liked to listen to music in the gloaming, not 
when the lamps were lighted or when the sun was shin- 
ing ; and one evening in May — an evening that will never 
be forgotten by me — I sung Shelley’s beautiful “Serenade/’ 
which I had set to music of my own. 


“ I arise from dreams of thee, 

In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low 
And the stars are shining bright ; 
I arise from dreams of thee. 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how? — 
To Ihy chamber-window, sweet. 


46 


IN curnrs net. 


“The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 

The chainpak odors fail, 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 

The nightingale’s complaint, 

It dies upon her heart, 

As I must die on thine, 

0 beloved, as thou art ! 

“ O, lift me from the grass — 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 

My cheek is cold and white, alas. 

My heart beats loud and fast ! 

Oh, press it close to thine again. 

Where it will break at last ! ” 

So I sung, thinking in my blindness that to die near him, 
to die even with my hand in his, would be to me a fore- 
taste of hea\n2n. Yet my love was very humble, for I never 
thought my hand would touch his. 

But on this night all the passion, all the wild deep love 
of my heart was aroused, and I sung as I had never sung 
before. Lady Caryl was lying on the couch. Sir Adrian 
sat in the recess of the window ; the dying light from the 
western sky filled the room. I could not suppress my 
emotion, so, rising from my seat, I passed quickly through 
the half-open window, across the lawn, down to the white 
gate where the lilacs grew — the gate that led to the river. 

My heart was full. I laid my hands on the gate and 
bowed my head on them. Presently I heard footsteps, 
each one of which seemed to strike upon my heart, and a 
voice said : 

“ Gracia ! ” 

Raising my face, I saw him ; he was looking at me with 
a new strange light in his eyes. 

“Gracia,” he said, “forgive me for following you; I 
could not help it. What was there in that song you sung ?” 

I knew what was in it ; but I could not tell him that it 
held all the strength and passion of my love. 

“ What was there in it ? ” he continued. “ I have heard 
many songs, but notliing like that, Gracia.” 

It was the outcry of a human soul ; but he must not 
know it. 

“The words have a sweetness all their own,” was all I 
said ; and for a few minutes he was silent. 

My hero, whom I had worshipped at a distance, was 


//V C['PID\^ NET. 


47 


Standing close beside me now, with something in his eyes 
and face I had never dared hope to see there. 

“ I do not wonder,” he said, “ that you set beautiful 
words to sweet harmonies. Your love of music can be 
seen in your face, Gracia.” Then, after closely watching 
me for a few moments, he added slowly, “ I cannot tell 
where, but I have seen a face in some picture just like 
yours.” 

“ Did it please you ? ” I asked eagerly ; for to win one 
word of commendation from his lips, I would have done 
anything. 

“Please me?” he echoed. “I thought it simply the 
loveliest face I had ever seen.” 

“Then it could not have been like mine!” I said in- 
credulously. 

“It was. It had the same dark eyes and brows, the 
same delicate profile and beautiful mouth, the same dark 
curls, even the same dimple in the white chin. It must 
have been a picture of you, Gracia. Why, child,” he added, 
passionately, “ you are beautiful as a poet’s dream ! When 
I met you that Christmas Eve by the postern-gate, your 
beauty took me completely by surprise.” 

Ah, beautiful Christmas star, how I blessed the light 
that led me thither ! But my beauty, the beauty of a 
nameless, friendless girl, what could it avail ? Still, if it 
pleased him, it was dear to me. 

“ I shall always like my face better now that I know it 
pleases you,” I said gently. 

A nightingale began to sing in the wood near by, and 
we were silent for some minutes listening ; then he con- 
tinued : 

“ Please me ? Ah, Gracia, that is a mild word ! Do you 
think that I have no eyes, no ears ? Do you think that I 
have listened to your singing without seeing the beauty of 
your face ? Do you think that I have looked at your face 
without recognizing your fair sweet soul ? I have said lit- 
tle to you ; but 1 am sure I understand you.” 

And I was made so perfectly happy by those few words 
that I should have been content to die then and there. Oh, 
happy night, the memory of which was never to leave 
me ! 

“I always thought,” he went on, “that to sing as you 
sing, one must liave loved and suffered. You cannot have 
loved.” 

“ I could have laughed aloud at the words. I had not 


48 


JM CUPID'S NKT. 


only loved, but I had almost worshipped him ; and he knew 
nothing of it. 

“ I have, suffered,” I answered slowly. 

“ Poets learn in suffering what they tell in song,” he 
said. “ If it is suffering that has taught you to sing, 
why — ” But he never finished the sentence. He took the 
hand that was lying idly on the white bar of the gate. 
“ Poor child,” he said, “at your age one ought to know 
nothing but happiness ! Tell me a little of this lonely 
youth of yours.” 

I told him all that I remembered of my life ; but, strange 
to say, so infinitely happy had he made me, so great was 
my delight, that I could hardly speak pityingly of my- 
self. 

“ I promised you,” he said, “ that I would do my best to 
unravel the mystery that surrounds you ; but I have had 
no success.’’ Then, after a pause, he added, “ I wonder 
what you will do with your life ? ” 

A sudden, horrible alarm lest he should pass out of it 
seized me — an alarm that was like a shock from the cold 
hand of death. 

“ I hope I shall live here always. I never want to go 
away,” was my answer. 

“ I am glad that you are so happy here, Gracia. Why 
should you go away ? My mother treats you well ; does 
she not ?” 

“Yes ; but Lady Caryl does not like me,” I said, slowly. 

“What makes you think so ? ” asked Sir Adrian. 

“ She is never unkind to me, never exacting,” I replied ; 
“but she seems to have an idea that I am an intruder.” 

“Nay, Gracia!” — and the next moment he had bent his 
fair head over my hand and kissed it. 

I can smile now, but then I trembled. It was as though 
a light of dazzling brilliancy blinded me. I could almost 
as soon have imagined one of the stars falling from Heaven, 
as that he should have acted thus. 

“I think,” he said gently, “that you are too beautiful, 
too accomplished for my mother to be very kind to you. 
She is naturally jealous.” 

“But,” I interrupted, “she is Lady Caryl, and I am her 
nameless dependent.” 

“ You will not always be a nameless dependent,” he said ; 
“you have the two gifts which rule the world. Your star 
will rise some day.” 

Looking at the handsome face bending over me, I said 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


49 


to myself that my star had risen already, and had brought 
me to him. 

From that evening, when we stood by the white gate 
that led to the river, he was quite changed to me. He 
sought opportunities of talking to me ; he would follow 
me when I went for a ramble by the river or in the wood ; 
he taught me all about the wild flowers and the birds. We 
w'ent down to the beach, we climbed the hills ; and he 
treated me always with the affection and kindness he would 
have shown to a younger sister. I never thought of what 
her ladyship would have said had she known. Why should 
I not drink to the dregs the cup of happiness held out to 
my thirsty lips? . 

So my girlish love and hero-worship grew until it filled 
my heart, my soul, my life. I lived like one in a dream, 
dazed by my own great happiness. Yet no word of love 
ever passed his lips. No queen could have been treated 
with greater respect. 

So the first few months passed, and I knew nothing of 
love but its sweetness ; that there could be pain, bitter- 
ness, or jealousy, never occurred to me. “The moon shines 
on many brooks ; the brooks see but one moon.” Sir Ad- 
rian was kind to everyone, and was universally esteemed. 
But to me he was the one man in the whole world ; I could 
see no other. 

One day in the month of August the first terrible awak- 
ening came to me. I had never thought of any ending to 
my beautiful love-story, never thought that Sir Adrian 
might marry. I had lived so intensely in every moment 
of the present, that I had no time to think of the future. 

It was Lady Caryl’s wish that for some few months she 
and her son should live in retirement — she thought it due 
to the memory of the old squire ; but in the month of 
August she emerged from her seclusion. She gave dinner- 
parties to the county magnates, and garden-parties, arch- 
cry and picnics to the younger folk. She told me 
that when any visitors were about I was to keep to my 
own room ; so that at first I was completely isolated. Then 
it occurred to her that my music would be of service. 

I was not introduced to any of the visitors ; but I was 
spoken of as “ My companion. Miss Gracia.” My music 
gave great pleasure, and Lady Caryl, when she found that 
was the case, made me a present of some pretty evening 
dresses. I suppose I had good taste, for, with a simple dress 
and a few flowers, 1 could compete with satin and diamonds. 


4 


50 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


On this August day, when the first shock came to me, 
Lady Caryl had given a garden-party. She had not ex- 
pressed any wish for my appearance, so for some hours I 
kept my room. At length I was told that I was wanted 
for something downstairs, and the temptation seized me 
to go round by the kitchen-garden and see the gayly- 
dressed crowd. 

I saw two young girls, beautifully dressed, who were 
amusing themselves by feeding the peacocks on the lawn. 
As I passed on the other side of the hedge, I heard one of 
them say to the other : 

“ How would you like to marry Sir Adrian, and be 
mistress of this place ? ” 

The words seemed to pierce my heart. Marry Sir 
Adrian ! Why, if he married, what was to become of me ? 
Marry him ! I stood still, rooted to the ground with hor- 
ror and dismay. Marry Sir Adrian, my idol and hero, 
who seemed to me entirely mine because I loved him so ! 
The sun seemed to grow blood-red ; the smiling beauty of 
the summer day was blotted out. 

Then another clear, sweet girlish voice came to me over 
the hedge. 

“ I would marry Sir Adrian if he had neither money nor 
land, just for love of his bonny blue eyes and his handsome 
face,” it said. 

And the second blow was even more terrible to me than 
the first. 

One speaker would marry him to be mistress of his 
broad lands, the other for love of his bonny blue eyes and 
his handsome face ! To me, who had worshipped him as 
my ideal, who had idolized him, the matter-of-fact manner 
in which these girls discussed their willingness to marry 
him, was revolting. 

I gazed anxiously at them. They were both young, 
both pretty ; but, oh, surely Sir Adrian would never" marry 
either of them ? If he married, I must go. 

I no longer found any pleasure in watching the gay 
crowd ; I gave no heed to the message that had been 
brought to me — my heart was too sore. I went back to 
the house, to the picture-gallery, and stood there for some 
time looking at the noble pictured face and the smiling 
blue eyes. Ah me, those girls, well-born, well dressed, 
well-bred, could talk laughingly about marrying him — one, 
because he had broad lands, the other, because he had a 
handsome face ! But there was no love like my love, 


IN CUPID\S NET. 


SI 

thongli he would never know anything of it ; it must be 
lijdden from every eye, and die with me. 

If tlie lips that were so firm, yet gentle, would but once 
— only once — open and say to me, “ Gracia, I love you ! ” 
I should be satisfied. After that, I could meet even death 
with a smiling face. 

But then I came to my senses. Who Was I, that I 
should raise my eyes to him ? I was without even a 
name ; he was the proud owner of Heron’s Nest. Of 
course the day would come when he must marry ; and he 
must marry, too, in his own sphere. 


CFIAPTER VIII. 

Lady Caryl, regarding me as an utter nonentity, evi- 
dently thought other people looked at me in the same 
light. She never appeared to be in the least degree dis- 
quieted with regard to Sir Adrian and myself. I saw her 
look anxious and nervous when he was talking to some 
girl whom she did not particularly like ; but she never 
evinced the least fear of me. I suppose I was not of suffi- 
cient importance. 

But one morning Sir Adrian received some new songs 
from London, and he asked me to try them. In one of 
them a night-blowing cereus was spoken of. 

“What is a night-blowing cereus. Sir Adrian ? ” I asked. 

“A flower that opens at night instead of in the day, and 
gives out a delicious perfume,” he answered. 

“ I should like to see it,” I said thoughtlessly. 

He was so kind and seemed so interested that I had for- 
gotten for a few minutes the great gulf between us. 

“ Would you ?” he cried. “ I can show you a flower in 
the small conservatory that is just like it. Come, Gracia.” 

How gladly I went ! The August sun was shining 
brightly ; the flowers in the conservatory, fragrant and 
fair, were a feast to the eyes. And I was alone with him 
in the midst of all that beauty and perfume. 

Did my happy face flush with my secret ? Did it shine 
in my eyes ? I feared to raise them, for I knew it was 
tliere. He showed me many beautiful flowers. I am 
asliamed to sav I scarcely looked at them ; I saw only the 
face that was ail the world to me. He told me all about 


52 


IN CUPlD^S NET. 


them ; but I hardly heard one word — I was so engrossed 
in him. 

“ Gracia,” he said at last, “ I do believe you are not 
listening.” 

“.I am, indeed ! ” I answered. 

“Then I do not believe you understand what I say. 
Look at me, and tell me the last thing I said.” 

But I knew if I looked at him I should not be able to 
utter a word. 

“ Indeed I heard you. Sir Adrian,” I answered. 

“ Then why do you not look at me ?” 

I raised my eyes slowly. Ah, what did they say — what 
did they tell him ? 

“ Gracia ! ” he cried, then raised my hand to his lips. 

A moment later we saw Lady Caryl coming toward us. 
She gave one quick look from one to the other — one 
searching look. Sir Adrian appeared unconcerned, but 
my cheeks burned hotly. Her ladyship said nothing to 
me, but told her son that the farm-steward was waiting 
for him. When Sir Adrian had gone, she turned sharply 
to me. 

“ How is it I find you wasting your time here, Gracia?” 
she asked harshly. “ I expect you to be at work. What 
has brought you here ? ” 

I told her of my thoughtless wish to see the “night- 
blowing cereus,” and she did not seem angry. 

“ I think,” she said, “ it would be better if you did not 
speak so freely to my son. Although he is kind enough 
to take a little interest in you, you must remember the 
wide difference between you.” 

“ I have never forgotten it. Lady Caryl, and I never 
shall,” was my reply. 

“ That is right ; do not give yourself airs because you 
fancy you have a pretty face. Another time, if Sir Adrian, 
in his thoughtless kindness, should offer to show you 
flowers or anything else, say you are busy, and decline.” 

Of course it was all right and proper ; between the 
nameless dependent and the master of Heron’s Nest was 
a gulf nothing could bridge over. But, although it was 
right, my heart beat in rebellious anger. Oh, my love 
with the bonny blue eyes, eyes that compelled me to do 
his will, how could I decline any kindness he might proffer. 

Then Lady Caryl sent me to the work-room. I was in 
a tempest of fiery anger, of hot indignation. My hands 
shook so that I could not hold my needle, iwy limbs trem- 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


53 


bled, my cheeks glowed. Yet she was quite right — and 
that was the bitter part of it. What would she say if she 
knew that he had kissed my hand ? I looked at it. It was 
as white and shapely as her ladyship’s own, and the place 
where he had kissed it burned still. Ah me, if I had but 
been one of the crowd of well-born, well-dressed, well-bred 
girls, I should not have been told to say I was busy and 
decline Sir Adrian’s kind attentions! 

All that day Lady Caryl was very thoughtful. I saw 
that she was brooding over something. I was counting 
the hours until the gloaming came, when I should sing 
for him — sing out all my love for him. 

I laid my dress of white muslin ready ; I gathered blush- 
roses for my neck and my hair. I see myself now, stand- 
ing before the mirror, a tall, slender figure in a white dress, 
tlie blush-roses in the dark hair and at my throat, my eyes 
bright with hope and gladness. I was going to see him ; 
I should be in the same room with him for at least two 
hours. I should sing to him of the love that never dies, 
of the story that never grows old. I should meet his 
friendly glances. Perhaps he would even come over to 
me as he had done before, and say something pleasant to 
me. 

There was a rap at my door. It was Fisher, her lady- 
ship’s maid. She looked with a meaning smile at the 
white dress and the blush-roses. 

“You can take them off, Gracia,” she said ; “my lady 
bade me tell you you need not go down to the drawing- 
room to-night.” 

As a cloud darkens the face of the sun, so, on hearing 
these words, all my happiness died ; the color left my face, 
my eyes grew dim, the blush-roses seemed to wither, all 
the joy and gladness vanished, and the chill and the black- 
ness of night fell upon me. 

I was not to see him ! I sat in my room until midnight, 
listening to the far-off sound of music and song, with the 
very bitterness of death in my heart. I cried myself ’to 
sleep, thinking of/the happy girls who were free to talk to 
him, of the one who had said that she would marry him 
for his broad lands, and of the other who would marry him 
for love of his bonny blue eyes. 

On the day following Lady Caryl was in a more amiable 
mood. I had one delicious moment — I met Sir Adrian in 
the great corridor. His whole face brightened when he 
saw me. 


54 


IN Clip ID'S NET. 


“Gracia,” he said, reproachfully, “why did you not come 
and sing last night ? I missed you so much ! ” 

I had no time to answer, for 1 saw Fisher in the distance, 
and I knew she told everything to Lady Caryl. But the 
words had made me quite happy again. If he missed me, 
nothing else mattered. 

In the evening, just before dinner. Lady Caryl sent for 
me. She was in her boudoir, and she asked me to write 
some letters for her. Then she walked to the window. I 
suppose few people care to look into the face of those 
whom they are going to injure. 

“ You will have more liberty in the evening now, Gracia,” 
she said at last. “ We shall have visitors next week. Cap- 
tain Fane, one of my son’s old schoolfellows, is coming.” 
She paused ; then her voice grew harsher, more sharp and 
shrill as she continued, “Mrs. Roper, the general’s wife, 
and Lady Aditha Glynn are coming too. Lady Aditha is 
a very fine musician, so that I shall be able to dispense 
with your services.” 

There was something else coming, I knew, I was breath- 
less with suspense, with dread. 

“ I may as well tell you,” she said, “ that Sir Adrian and 
Lady Aditha are engaged to he married ; it is an engage- 
ment of long standing.” 

Every word fell like a drop of molten lead upon my 
heart. I stood motionless, and I felt the color die from 
my face. Did some keen instinct tell her what she had 
done ? She did not turn round ; she never glanced at me. 

“ Of course,” she went on, “ I am not blaming you ; but 
it is certainly an awkward thing to have a girl in your 
position about the house. I am sure I do not know how 
to explain it to Lady Aditha. I must trust to your good 
sense to keep out of the way as much as possible.” 

What could I say ? It was all true ; but I could not bear 
the truth. The last few words roused me ; their very bit- 
terness and cruelty stung me into passionate life. 

“Your ladyship’s wishes sliall be obeyed,” I replied; 
and my anger gave me strength to walk steadily from the 
room. 

When I reached my chamber, I threw myself upon the 
bed and buried my face in the pillows. All I longed for 
was death. Was ever girl so miserable as I ? 

It was some time before I dared to look this new pain 
in the face. Sir Adrian was to marry Lady Aditha. I did 
not know until that hour how much I loved him — how 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


55 


blank and cold nny future looked. I tried to think what 
this new state of things would be like. Sir Adrian mar- 
ried I It meant that he would have some one to love with 
a supreme love, some one for whom he would always be 
tenderly solicitous, some one who would absorb all his 
thoughts, while I should be excluded. It meant that the 
few fleeting glimpses I had had of an earthly paradise 
would be rudely blotted out forever. 

There would be no more sweet converse by the white 
gate that led to the river, no more rambles through the 
woods where the wild flowers grew, no more pleasant liours 
by the piano, trying over new songs or lingering over old 
ones. There would be some one else — some one with a 
right divine, a claim to his time, his thoughts ? Alas, alas, 
there was no truth in dreams, no truth in the frank glances 
of sunny blue eyes, no truth in the smile whicli had seemed 
to me bright as sunlight, no truth in anything ; for he 
might have told me he was going to be married ! Yet why 
should he ? His mother’s nameless dependent had no claim 
on him. 

I could go away when Lady Aditha was his wife. I need 
not stop to witness the happiness of another ; but the pros- 
pect was intolerable. I had let my heart leave me and 
cling to him. I had made an idol of him, and now I had 
suddenly found out that he was going to be married. 

What was she like, this Lady Aditha? Was she tall, 
fair, and stately? Would he walk by her side, look into 
lier eyes, kiss her hand, as he had kissed mine ? If lie did 
so, I, seeing it, must die of jealousy. I could not bear it 
— and yet I had known always that my love was in vain. 
My love ! Just because he had been kind to me, because 
from the height on which he stood he had looked down 
upon me, because in his goodness of heart he had spoken 
gently to me, was I to presume ? And yet what a happy, 
thrice happy girl Lady Aditha must be ! 

I was flying down the south corridor in almost breath- 
less haste. Her ladyship had sent for me, and that in 
every case meant speed. I almost ran against Sir Adrian, 
who'laughed at my impetuosity. I had not seen him since 
I heard that he was going to be married to Lady Aditha 
Glynn. My heart beat so quickly and I trembled so vio- 
lentlv that f could hardly stand. I felt my face grow white 
as the face of the dead." My ashy lips parted, but I could 
not speak. Sir Adrian caught both my hands in his, his 


56 


//V CUrJD^S NET. 


face brightened, a tender light came into his eyes ; but I 
steeled my heart against liim. He was going to be mar- 
ried. 

“ Gracia,” he said, gently, “ I am so pleased to see you. 
Where have you been hiding ? I have not seen you for 
days.” 

“What does it matter?” I asked myself, recklessly. 
“Why should he want me ? He is going to marry a rich 
and beautiful lady.” My eyes reproached him. What did 
he want with me ? 

“Why, Gracia,” he exclaimed, “what is it? You have 
been ill ; you are not happy ; you have lost all your color 
and the brightness from your eyes.” 

What if I had ? It mattered nothing to him, who was 
going to marry Lady Aditha. 

“ Gracia, speak to me ! ” he cried. 

He looked as though he were going to take me in his 
arms and kiss me. A hot thrill of anger passed through 
me. Why should he want to kiss me when he was going 
to marry beauty and wealth ? Let him kiss his betrothed. 
Yet, while my whole frame trembled with anger, my heart 
went out to him. Oh, love with the bonny blue eyes, how 
good you were to look upon ! I wrenched my hand from 
his. 

“ I must go,” I said, desperately ; “ Lady Caryl wants me.” 

If I had stayed there one minute longer, I must have 
betrayed myself. I hastened down the corridor, and he 
stood looking after me, distressed and grieved. Let him 
console himself, I thought, with the beauty and heiress he 
was going to marry. Yet the loving look in his blue eyes 
haunted me. 

Had I lost my color ? As I passed one of the large mir- 
rors, I stopped to see if it was so. Yes, it was gone. I 
looked like the ghost of the happy girl who had stood 
under the light of the Christmas stars. 

Two days later the visitors came — Captain Fane, a fine 
soldierly-looking man ; Mrs. Roper, a most formidable- 
looking lady ; and the lovely Lady Aditha. I saw them 
all from the gallery as they were going in to dinner. Sir 
Adrian was walking by Lady Aditha’s side ; but, beauti- 
ful as she was, he did not look like her lover. 

How shall I describe her, this fair rival of mine, who 
was to wring my heart with unutterable anguish ? She 
was a queen of blondes — fair as a white lily sinning in the 
sun, with the dainty coloring that one sees in a pink sea- 


IN*C UP ID ’ NE T. 


57 


shell, hair of the brightest gold, and eyes like great sap- 
phires — a dazzling creature. I thought of the line — “A 
lair and radiant maiden, whom the angels call Lenore.” 
She was tall and graceful, with beautiful white arms bare 
to the shoulder, and perfect hands. Broad bands of gold, 
from which diamonds flashed, clasped her peerless arms. 
Her dress was of palest lilac, trimmed with costly white 
lace. 

What chance had I, dark-skinned, ill-dressed, nameless 
as I was ? I almost hated myself for having presumed to 
love him ? I watched her looking up with laughing eyes 
into his face ; I watched him listening to her. Heaven 
forgive me, I could have slain her — slain her in her bright 
loveliness, so full was my heart of the keenest and most 
bitter jealousy ! 

For some days afterward it seemed to me that I was 
hardly conscious of what went on around me. There 
were several other visitors staying in the house, and in 
the morning I could see tliem all go out riding, driving, 
or walking, a happy, merry party. Sir Adrian and Lady 
Aditha were always together. Yet I saw too, from my 
window, that Sir Adrian never rode away without looking 
round, as if in search of somebody. Could he be looking 
for me ? 

The evenings were the worst and the hardest to pass. 
Although my room was at the top of the house, I could 
hear all that went on beneath me. I knew when the la- 
dies went to dress for dinner ; I knew when they emerged, 
attired for the evening. I could hear the hum of conver- 
sation at tal9le, and, later, sounds of music and sing- 
ing, and sometimes, when there were plenty of young 
people present, of dancing, and I, young and fair as they, 
sat in my room lonely and forlorn. 

One evening in particular I remember so well. The 
moon was up, the air was sweet with the breath of flowers, 
every tree and shrub stood out clear and distinct in the 
brilliant moonlight. I could hear tlie strains of the “Ma- 
nola ” waltz, and the music seemed to stir my blood. A long- 
ing seized me to see what was going on. I went gently 
down the grand staircase, across the great hall, and out by 
one of the side-doors into the grounds. I knew that I 
could see into the drawing-room if I stood beside a climb- 
ing-rose that half covered the window-frame. The win- 
dow itself was wide open. I could see without being seen. 

Ah me, to be young, beautiful, and rich ! Ah me, to be 


58 


IN CUPID\S NFN\ 


loved! I could see the elegantly-furnished room, with its 
pictures, its liowers. I could see Sir Adrian waltzing with 
Lady Aditha. A more graceful, a handsomer pair could 
not be imagined. I saw Lady Caryl watching them with 
delight in her face. Lady Aditha waltzed to perfection. 
She wore a dress of dead-white silk, with a parure of rubies. 
Her fair face was flushed, her eyes shone star-like. As 
they passed, his arm round her graceful figure, her hair 
all but touching his cheek, I felt that just to have stood 
so for one moment, I would have given my life. 

I could not bear the sight of my rival in his arms, and 
I turned away with a low, despairing cry. I ran to the 
white gate by the river. The grass grew tall just there, 
and I flung myself down to weep out the bitter pain at my 
heart. There w^as no one to see me, no one to hear me ; 
I was alone under the broad night sky. I could hear the 
bitter sound of my own sobs die away ; and, as I lay 
there, I thought of the light of the Christmas star. Ah, 
whither had it led me ? What should I do ? 

“Gracia,” said a voice, the sound of which made my 
heart leap, “ Gracia, my poor child, what are you doing 
here ? What is wrong ? ” 

I sprung to my feet in an instant. 

“ Everything is wrong ! ” I answered passionately. 
“ How did you know that I was here ? ” 

“ I heard that little cry of yours at the window,” he re- 
plied. “ Nay, do not be alarmed ; no one else heard it. 
No one else saw you ; but I did, and I followed you. Oh, 
Gracia, how I wish that you could be with us ! How I 
hate to see you shut out as you are ! It shall not be ! ” 

But an angry spirit of opposition and sullenness came 
over me. Why should he care for me when the beautiful 
heiress whom he was going to marry was there ? 

“You cannot miss me,” 1 said, defiantly, “ when you have 
all those pretty girls there.” 

“ There is no face in the room one-half so beautiful as 
yours, Gracia,” he said, earnestly. 

“That is treason to Lady Aditha,” I returned, coldly. 

“Lady Aditha contrasted with you, is like a white rose 
by the side .of a queenly damask,” he said. 

“Then why — ” I began, but hesitated. 

“ Why what ? ” he asked, with a smile. 

I had been on the point of saying, “ Why do you love 
her best then ?” but I checked the words. 

“ Gracia,” he went on, “do you not see I want to bring 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


59 


about a complete change of affairs ? My mother must — ” 
He paused, and then said, abruptly, “ Why, child, your face 
is all wet witli tears ! ” 

He caught me in his arms, and kissed me, with passionate 
murmured words— kissed me, he, the man whom I wor- 
shipped, he, the man who was to marry Lady Aditha ! I tore 
myself away from him. 

“ How — how dare you ? ” I cried. 

I was thinking of Lady Aditha. He believed I was 
angry with him. 

“ I could not help it, Gracia," he said, tenderly — “ I 
could not, indeed ! Those dark eyes of yours looked so 
beautiful, half blinded by tears." 

“ Let him kiss the tears from Lady Aditha’s eyes ! " I 
thought ; and I hardened myself against him. 

His handsome face grew pale and sad. 

“ Gracia," he said, sorrowfully, “ I thought you cared 
for me." 

Once more I ran away from him because I could not 
control myself. If I had remained, I must have cried out 
that I loved him. 

After that, life became a positive torture to me. Every 
one talked about Sir Adrian and Lady Aditha — how rich 
he was, how beautiful she was, and how graceful, what a 
grand marriage it would be. 

One morning Mrs. Paterson, the housekeeper, gave me 
the keenest pleasure I had known for some time. 

“ Ah, Gracia," she said, “ Lady Aditha is beautiful ; but 
she cannot compare wdth you ! If you were a lady born, 
she would be nowhere." 

And I managed to extract some little comfort from that. 

August had passed, September was come, and the har- 
vest-moon W'as shining. The visitors had been in the 
house some weeks, and there was no sign of their going. 
vSince the night when he had found me weeping by the 
white gate. Sir Adrian and I had been strangers. I avoided 
him, and w'as most miserable in consequence. I knew 
that he wanted to speak to me ; but I would not give him 
a chance to do so. 

One fatal morning I was told that every one had gone 
out. I had heard Sir Adrian ride off, and naturally con- 
cluded that Lady Aditha was of the party. I resolved, 
while they were all away and I had the opportunity, to go 
to the library to obtain a fresh supply of books. Great 


6o 


I A' CUPID'S NET. 


was my consternation, when I entered, to find Lady Aditha 
sitting there writing! Slie had declined going out at the 
last moment. I would have gone back at once ; but it was 
too late. 

“ Come in,” she said ; “you will not disturb me.” 

I saw her look of intense surprise when I entered. She 
kept her eyes fixed upon my face for some time. Then 
she said, almost abruptly, 

“ Who are you ? ” 

I had but the old answer to give ; but this time I varied 
it. 

“ I am Lady Caryl’s companion,” I replied. 

She smiled, graciously ; and, when I saw how her smile 
enlianced her beauty, I asked myself in bitterness of spirit 
what chance had I ? 

“ I did not know Lady Caryl had a companion,” she ob- 
served. 

She never removed her eyes from my face the whole 
time that I was in the room, and she persisted in talking 
to me. I wanted to go ; but she asked me so many ques- 
tions that I could not leave her. My impression of her 
character from that interview was that she was proud, sel- 
fisli, and liked money. What she thought of me I did not 
know, but I know the result of our meeting. I know that 
she must have spoken disparagingly of me to Lady Caryl, 
must have poisoned her mind against me, must have told 
her that I was a dangerous person to have in the house ; 
for Lady Caryl sent for me, and, in her coldest, haughtiest 
manner, said : 

“ I thought I gave you instructions that, while our vis- 
itors remained here, you were to keep out of sight ? ” 

“ I have done so as much as possible,” I returned, bitterly. 

“Yet I hear that you have intruded upon Lady Aditha 
Glynn. Mrs. Roper says it is a most indecorous thing. 
However, it shall not occur again. I have made arrange- 
ments for you to go to Heronsdale. Miss Kenyon has a 
school there for the education of young girls of the middle 
class, and she will no doubt consent to receive you.” 

“ I am too old to go to school,” I said. 

“ It is a question of manners, not of age,” she retorted. 
“ Pack your trunk to day ; you must leave Heron’s Nest 
to-morrow.” 

Without another word I quitted the room, my heart 
swelling with indignation at the injustice that had been 
done to me. 


IN CUPID^S' NET. 


6i 


CHAPTER IX. 

I WAS to go ; appeal was useless. I must leave ihe 
home that had been my only refuge, leave the presence 
dearest to me on earth. Oh, love with the bonny blue 
eyes, I must say “Good-by” to you ! I had made up my 
mind what to do. I would go to Miss Kenyon’s ; but I 
would not stay there. I would make my way to London, 
and perhaps some day I might meet him again — I, a queen 
of song. I tried, but unavailingly, to stifle my pain vvitli 
these reflections. 

One thing however was clear — I had to pack my trunk. 
But where was it ? I remembered having brought a box 
with me when I was a child, and Mrs. Blencowe’s Saying 
to me, “ I bouglit that as we passed through London.” 
Where could it be ? None of the servants knew anything 
of it. Mrs. Paterson advised me to look in the lumber- 
rooms. 

Looking in the lumber-rooms was very much like look- 
ing for a lost needle in a haystack. They were three large ^ 
rooms at the top of the house, lighted by sky-lights. One 
contained boxes of every imaginable kind and sliape ; but 
mine was not among them. The second was filled with 
old furniture and old pictures, and the third was a recepta- 
cle for well-nigh all the odds and ends it is possible to 
think of. 

The third was the largest room of the three, and the 
brightest. I became quite interested in the variety of old 
and forgotten things that I found. I remember every detail 
of the afternoon so well. It was four o’clock when I went 
into that room ; the afternoon shadows lay long upon the 
grass, the birds were singing blithely. 

Through the window in the roof came a ray of bright 
sunlight that fell upon the things that encumbered the 
floor. There was a violin that had not been used for 
years, an old easel, a pile of books, and a number of old 
picture frames. Everything was covered with dust, and 
large cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Evidently it was 
some time since the lumber-room had been touched. 

My box was not there ; but I found many things that 
attracted my attention. In a distant corner of the room, 
where it was not very light, I saw some old engravings 
covered with dust, and near them lay something that I 


62 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


recognized with a smile and a cry. It was the map of the 
county which I liad seen last on the squire’s table' when 
he was making his will. I remembered the wooden roll- 
ers, the blue twist, the peculiar colors. It was like seeing 
an old friend ; and it brought that past picture so vividly 
before me that for some time I sat silent, looking at it. 

At last I opened it, and something fell from it. I stooped 
to pick it up ; and there, fresh as it was when I had seen 
it last, was the parcel I had seen the squire pack up and 
tie with red tape. There was the closely-written sheet of 
parchment, there were the long strips of paper that looked 
like certificates, there were the letters that I had seen him 
inclose. Although I had never s^en the packet since that 
eventful day, I knew it at once, remembering how the 
squire had fastened the ends of the tape with wax. 

A perfect fever of excitement possessed me ; I knew 
that I had found the lost will. But there was something 
more wonderful still than this. On the outside cover, in the 
squire’s own handwriting, were these words — “ To be 
opened by my daughter, Gracia, after my death.” My 
eyes read, yet hardly saw the words. I fell upon my knees 
with the packet in my hands, for I had discovered — oh, 
thank Heaven, I had discovered the name of my father at 
last ! 

I knelt there with streaming tears and trembling hands, 
my heart too full for words, hardly daring to break the 
seals and read. “ To my daughter, Gracia ” — that was why 
I had loved him, then ! The white-haired old man who 
had been so kind yet so strange to me, who had kissed 
me with tears in his eyes, yet, while knowing his relation- 
ship to me, had never spoken of it, was my father ! Gracia 
Dacre ! Thank heaven, I had discovered my name. 

These moments were to me the most solemn of my life. 
I stood on the threshold of a mysterious shrine. I kissed 
the words “My daughter, Gracia.” Oh, my dear, dead 
father, if I could but have kissed your face again ! 

Then, with the fervent words of a prayer on my lips, I 
broke the seals. I remember how the sunbeams from the 
roof-windovv fell across the papers, some of which were 
yellow with age, I remember the silence that reigned in 
tlie room, unbroken save by the rustling of the "pages I 
turned in my hands. The first thing I read was thelong 
letter which I had seen the squire write on that well-re- 
membered day in the library ; and this was what it con- 
tained — 


IN CUPIINS NET. 


63 


“ My dear daughter, Gracia : I write this letter in your 
presence, and, as I write, I look at you and wonder what you 
will think of me when, after I have passed away, you know 
that I was your father. I wisli I had the moral courage 
to tell you now, to take you in my arms and kiss you ; but 
I am afraid and ashamed. I ought to be proud of you, 
for you are as beautiful as your mother, who was one of 
the loveliest women in Spain. 

“You are my child, Gracia, yet I have never told you 
so. False pride withheld me. I will tell you the story of 
my life ; then you can condemn or pity me as you will. 
Perhaps you will know for yourself some day how the 
Dacres love ; perhaps you will know the fever and passion 
men call ‘love.’ It consumed me. She is dead — the beau- 
tiful 'Millicent whom I loved — and 1 will say no word 
against her — only this, that she betrayed me,” 

I remember how he had uttered the name when he lay 
dying, and what a bright light had come into his face. 

“She was a fashionable lady, my poor Millicent. I was 
only a country squire ; but I would have died for her, 
Gracia. She lured me on with sweet words and loving 
glances. I felt sure she loved me ; but one day when I 
asked her to be my wife, she gave me a cold, contemptuous 
look and refused my offer with scorn. She killed the 
good within me ; nevertheless nothing could extinguish 
my love for her. She married. Of her after-fate I need 
not speak ; all England knows it, and she has long been 
dead. 

“ I became a confirmed woman-hater after that ; and 
what was worse, I grew proud of the reputation. I liked 
to hear men aver that no woman could ever win Wolfgang 
Dacre. I lived for years in a state of proud defiance, and 
then I went to Spain. I honestly believed that my heart 
was dead, and that no woman had the power to draw a 
smile or a sigh from me. I met your mother at Granada, 
where she was living with an uncle — for she was an orphan, 
Gracia ; she had one of the loveliest faces that the sun 
ever shone on, and you are the living image of her. We 
were married in the Church of San Geronimo, Granada, 
and the long strip of paper you will find inclosed, marked 
No. I is the copy of the marriage certificate of Wolfgang 
Dacre of Heron’s Nest, in the county of Kent, England, 
and Isola Valida of Granada, Spain. The original is to be 
found in the registry of the old Church of San Geronimo. 

“Now I have a shameful confession to make. Your 


64 


IN CUPID^S NET, 


mother, Isola, was young and beautiful ; she was deeply 
in love with me, but she was not as Millicent. I had be- 
lieved myself madly in love with her ; but when I had 
been married a few months, I grew tired of her. 

“Poor Isola! I tried to hide my feelings; but I am 
afraid she found out the truth. She was beautiful and 
loving ; but she was not as Millicent. My very soul cried 
out for her, who had been dead so many years — Millicent, 
who had lured my heart from me only to fling it away. 
You will ask — and the question is a natural one — why, 
having married your mother, did I not bring her home to 
England and acknowledge her ? My answer is this. First 
— and I am ashamed to confess it — I had lost all interest 
in her. Poor Isola 1 I did nor care to bring her to Eng- 
land and introduce her to my friends. The second reason 
was, I had been so proud of my reputation as a woman- 
hater that I was ashamed to have it known that I had mar- 
ried. 

“ Then you were born, Gracia, I shotild have worshipped 
you had you been Millicent’s child. You had Isola’s eyes 
and all her dark loveliness. But there was no room, poor 
child, for you in my heart 1 When you were a year old, 
my old restlessness and the craving for change came over 
me, and I went away on my travels again. The paper 
marked No. 2 is the certificate of your baptism in the 
Church of San Geronimo, in Granada ; and you were 
given the name of Gracia Isola. 

“After awhile your mother faded. May heaven forgive 
me the share I had in her unhappiness 1 I repent it most 
bitterly. I wish that I had brought my wife and child home 
to England and acknowledged them. I would do anything 
to atone for the sin now ; but it is too late. I was witli 
her at the last. She died in my arms, and she forgave me 
before she died. The paper marked No. 3 is the copy of the 
certificate of your mother’s death. She was buried in the 
cemetery just outside of Granada. If ever you go to see 
her grave, you will know it by a white marble cross which 
bears but one word — ‘ Isola.’ I sent you, a little child only 
three years of age, to the convent of San Angelo ; and when 
you had been there some time you became very ill, and it 
was feared you would not live. Then I sent for my faith- 
ful old servant Mrs. Blencowe. I told her the story of 
my marriage, and bade her to take you home ; but, before 
doing so, I made her swear to me that nothing should ever 
induce her to breathe one word of what I had unsealed to 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


65 


her. The paper marked No. 4 is a copy of my letter to 
Mrs. Blencovve ; that marked No. 5 is the letter she sent 
me from Heron’s Nest, announcing her safe return with 
the child Gracia. 

“ I may as well tell you the truth, Gracia. I went further 
and further afield in my travels, always hoping to forget 
Millicent, and I forgot you. My lawyer wrote to me when 
Mrs. Blencowe died ; but I did not receive his letter until 
some months after it was due, and then I said nothing. I 
knew that you must be staying on here. Mine is a sorry 
story. I was a bad husband, I am a bad father ; but I will 
right the wrong 1 have done you. Forgive me, Gracia. 
I am old ; my hair is white, and my eyes are dim. Forgive 
me, my child. As I write these words, you are looking at 
me, and my heart melts within me. 

“ When I came home and found you so beautiful, so 
graceful, so accomplished, I repented of what I had done 
more bitterly than ever ; but it was too late. My pride 
will not let me avow that I have overcome my hatred to 
women and have been married ; it will not allow me to 
own that it is my own child I have so cruelly neglected. 
I could not bear the shame and humiliation. I could not 
endure the wonder and comments while I live ; after my 
death they will not hurt me. 

“ Inclosed in this parcel you will find a letter addressed 
to Mr. Graham, in which I tell him also my story and place 
you under his care. I do you justice at last, my child. I 
leave you the whole of my fortune. Heron’s Nest, with all 
it contains — everything I have in the world ; you are my 
sole heiress. The only other relatives I have are the 
Caryls, whose fortunes do not concern or interest me. So, 
Gracia, I make you amends at last. I wish I could do it 
in life ; but my pride will not let me. I should like to feel 
your arms clasped round my neck, and to hear you call me 
‘father;’ but I could not bear the sneers of those who 
knew that I was a woman-hater. 

“The paper marked No. 6 is the letter to be given to 
Mr. Graham. No. 7 is my will. Your eyes will not fall 
upon these lines until I am dead. When you read them, 
think kindly of me, and take warning not to love with the 
madness of a Dacre. It is love for Millicent that has ruined 
my life, and your mother’s and yours — nothing else. 

“ Good-by, my daughter. I shall hide this packet in my 
escritoire ; but at my death it will no doubt be found. 
Good-by, Gracia.” 

5 


66 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


It was clear that, after writing this letter, he had re- 
pented. When he talked to me of righting a wrong, he 
was going that very day to consult with the Heronsdale 
lawyer as to the means of doing it, and he met with his 
fatal accident on the way thither. 

1 sat for some minutes feeling utterly bewildered. Then 
I looked at the parchment sheet, and read the words — 
“The last will and testament of Wolfgang Dacre, Esquire, 
of Heron’s Nest.” The will was short, but conclusive, for 
it left everything he had in the world — houses, lands, 
moneys, pictures, plate, carriages, horses, books, jewels — 
to his beloved and only child, Gracia Isola Dacre, daughter 
of Isola Dacre, his wife, whom he had married at Granada. 
It was signed by himself in a clear bold hand, and witnessed 
by the housekeeper, Margaret Paterson, and by the butler, 
James Graystone. 

The shock was almost more than I could bear, and it 
was with difficulty that I could keep from crying aloud. 
My whole frame trembled ; my heart seemed to stand still. 
So I was no nameless dependent. I was Gracia Dacre, 
sole representative of the proud line of Dacres and heiress 
of all their wealth. I was no longer the despised com- 
panion ; I was Gracia Dacre of Heron’s Nest. Far and 
wide as I could see, everything belonged to me ; and it is 
little wonder that my heart swelled with exultation. No 
longer should I be confined to the servants’ hall and my 
solitary bedroom ; there should be no more haughty re- 
quests that I would keep out of the way when visitors 
were in the house. The house was mine ! Never again 
would groom and footman call me “ Gracia ” and patronize 
me ! Never again would proud, beautiful Lady Aditha call 
me an intruder ! I was her social equal now. 

In the first flush of pride my thoughts flew to Mrs. 
Sale and Miss Sale, the two women who had despised 
me ^o utterly, who had interfered with the only pleasure 
I had in life by preventing me from singing in the 
church. What would they say when they heard that the 
girl they had snubbed and scorned was the heiress of 
Heron’s Nest ? 

And Lady Caryl, who had resented my presence, what 
would she think — she, who had been so coldly contemptu- 
ous, who had ordered me to leave the place because one of 
her visitors had seen me ? What would she sav when she 
knew the house belonged to the despised dependent ? I 
reliearsed the scene. I pictured her face when she heard 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


67 

that I was the squire’s daughter, and my heart beat almost 
madly with fierce angry pride, for I had been made to 
suffer so severely. 

Ah, Lady Caryl, you will be sorry now for your scorn 
and your contempt ! You will wish that you had treated 
me better, that you had been more gentle, more kindly. 

Then the tears fell fast and warm down my face and my 
heart softened with gratitude ; the fierce, exultant pride 
seemed to die. Ah, fair and beautiful Christmas star, was 
this indeed the place to which your light had brought me ? 
Then the bare walls of the lumber-room faded, and I saw 
instead the green postern-gate, covered with ivy, and the 
ivy holding the white snow in its green leaves. I saw the 
blue night-sky, and the Christmas star shining brightly, 
and, framed by the green ivy-leaves, the face that was as 
the sun of my life. Oh, my love with the bonny blue 
eyes, had I for one moment forgotten you ? 

Suddenly a chill came over me as the thought flashed 
across my mind, “ My gain would be his loss ! If Heron’s 
Nest came to me, he must lose it. If all the squire’s 
money and lands became mine, he must be the poorer for 
it. I was actually stepping into his place, taking from him 
that of which I knew him to be unspeakably proud. I 
who loved him was about to deprive him of a fortune. I 
who almost worshipped him was going to enrich myself at 
his expense. He had been so proud to call himself Caryl 
of Heron’s Nest, and now he would be able to do so no 
longer. 

And I loved him. Only two days since I had looked at 
his portrait, and had wished to be able to do something to 
show my gratitude for his kindness. I had said to myself 
then that I would give my life for him, and had longed for 
an opportunity to prove my affection. Here was one ! If 
I loved him better than wealth, better than life, better 
than anything in this world, now was the time to show it. 
Let me destroy those papers, the only evidence of the 
truth — destroy them, and let everything go on as before. 
My own self-respect was secured ; I knew that I was the 
squire’s daughter, and the knowledge of that fact must al- 
ways support and comfort me. 

If I loved him, how could I take this fortune from him, 
now that it was in my power to make perhaps as great a 
sacrifice as any woman had ever made for a man, the 
greater because it would be completely concealed, and no 
one would ever know of it ? 


68 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


I would take the papers and destroy them. They should 
never know, either mother or son, what I had done for 
them. I gathered the papers quickly together and 
wrapped them in my little muslin apron ; then I opened 
the door, and went swiftly down the staircase. At the foot 
I saw Lady Caryl, evidently just on the point of coming 
up to me. 


CHAPTER X. 

We looked each other steadily in the face. In her eyes 
there were anger, irritation, and curiosity ; in mine — I felt 
it — there was power. For the first time we met as social 
equals ; but I must not say so. Then she glanced at the 
white bundle in my arms. 

“ What have you been doing up-stairs ? ” she asked. I 
sent for you some time since, and was told that you have 
been in the lumber-rooms all the afternoon. What have 
you been doing? I do not know what may be there, and 
I do not like any person to go prying about the house as 
you have done.” 

I looked at her in wonder. It was of my house she was 
speaking ; the house and all it contained were mine, not 
hers ; but for Sir Adrian’s sake I must not proclaim it. I 
saw that her anger was at a white heat. In all probability 
Lady Aditha had been speaking of me again, and irritat- 
ing her against me. 

“ What have you been doing in those rooms,” she de- 
manded. 

“ I went first to look for my box, since your ladyship has 
decided to send me from the only home I have in the world. 
I could not find it ; but I have been looking over the con- 
tents of the rooms.” 

“ An exceedingly impertinent thing ! You had no right 
to do anything of the kind,” she said, angrily. 

“What would she say,” I thought, “if she knew what I 
had found there — if she knew what I had wrapped in ap- 
parently careless fashion in my apron ? What a fall her 
pride would have ! ” And I could not prevent the exulta- 
tion I felt from showing itself in my eyes. She saw it, 
and grew even more curious. 

“ What have you there ? ” she demanded. 

“ 1 decline to tell you Lady Caryl,” I answered, firmly. 
“ It is something that belongs not to you, but to myself.” 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


6 ^ 


“You have taken it from those rooms,” she cried. 

“ I have ; but it is my own,” I returned, calmly. 

“ Nothing here is your own,” she said, hotly, her face 
growing pale with anger ; “ everything belongs to me. You 
have no right to carry from this house a single thing with- 
out my permission.” ® 

Involuntarily my hands closed round my white apron 
and its contents. I knew that I was going to destroy the 
papers ; but for those few minutes I felt proud of the 
knowledge that I was mistress of the house and all it con- 
tained. 

“ Will you let me pass. Lady Caryl ?” I said. 

“No,” she exclaimed ; “ you shall not pass until I know 
what you have there wrapped up in your apron.” 

“ Then I shall have to stay here forever, for I shall show 
what I have to no one.” 

“ You will show it to me,” she said, biting her lip. 

I paused for a few moments to consider the position. It 
would indeed serve her right to let her see the papers ; 
and for a moment the temptation to show them to her was 
strong ; but I had resolved to make the sacrifice for my 
lover’s sake. 

“ I have no wish to threaten or to use violence,” her lady- 
ship went on more calmly ; “ but I will see what you have 
there. If you refuse to show me, I shall send for the but- 
ler and one of the footmen, and they shall take it from 
you.” 

Of course she could do that, and in the hands of two 
strong men I should be powerless. They would take the 
documents from me in an instant, and then — Ah, my 
love with the bonny blue eyes, that should never be ! I 
clasped the little parcel more tightly. 

“ Lady Caryl,” I implored, “be just to me. I swear to 
you what I have here belongs to me, and to no one else. 
Please let me pass and go free. I will leave the house and 
never return.” 

But she would not listen to my appeal. I saw that she 
was debating in her mind whether she should take my par- 
cel from me by force or not, but evidently her sense of 
propriety conquered. 

“ I must and will see what you are secreting there,” she 
said, knitting her brows. “Choose at once. I shall either 
call the men or you must give to me of your own free will 
what you have hidden there.” 

“That I will never do,” I returned, resolutely. 


70 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


“ Come down to my room,” said Lady Caryl, perempto- 
rily. “ I do not see why I should stand in this draught. 
Go before me to my boudoir.” 

And I obeyed her. Ah, what would she have said had 
she known what I carried in my apron ? 

We wentfnto the boudoir, and then she closed the door. 

“ Put what you have in your hands upon the table,” she 
commanded. 

I declined to do so. 

“ I intend to see what it is,” said Lady Caryl, firmly. 

And I as firmly declared she should not. 

Was it a good or an evil spirit that led Sir Adrian to the 
door just at that moment ? 

“ Can I speak to you, mother ?” he asked. ‘‘I will not 
detain you long.” 

“ Come in,” she answered. “ I am glad to see you, 
Adrian.” 

He looked with wonder from Ker to me, and then at 
the white bundle in my arms. 

“ What is it ? ” he asked, hurriedly. “ What is the mat- 
ter with you and Gracia, mother?” 

“Adrian,” said Lady Caryl, “I shall be glad if you will 
support my authority. I have made arrangements for 
Gracia to go to Miss Kenyon’s at Heronsdale. For many 
reasons I do not think it advisable that she should remain 
here. Lady Aditha has been speaking to me about it, and 
she is of the same opinion.” 

To my great surprise, he muttered something about 
Lady Aditha that was not at all complimentary. 

“ I told Gracia, to-day,” her ladyship went on, “ that I 
wished her to pack up and go. Under the pretext of 
seeking for a box, she has spent the whole of this after- 
noon in the lumber-rooms, and it seems to me that she 
has taken what she liked from them.” 

Ah, thank Heaven, his face flushed with anger at the 
cruel words ? Then his eyes were turned with infinite 
tenderness on me. 

“ Mother, you cannot possibly know what you are say- 
ing,” he cried. 

“ I do,” she returned, stiffly. “ Gracia has spent the after- 
noon in those rooms, and I met her stealing down the 
staircase with this bundle in her arms. I want to know 
what it contains. She refuses to tell me ; and as she per- 
sists in her refusal, I have brought her here, and shall com- 
pel her to let me see what she is carrying away with her.” 


IN CUPID^S NKT. 


71 


If she knew — if she only knew ! 

“ Mother, I am surprised at you !” he cried, indignantly. 
“ I can hardly believe that you can say such cruel things. 
I would trust Gracia with my life.” 

Then I found my voice. 

“Sir Adrian,” I said, “I assure you that what I have 
here is my own, entirely my own, and belongs to no one 
else.” 

“ I believe you, Gracia,” he returned, confidently. 

“And I, Adrian,” said Lady Caryl, “call upon you to 
help me to assert my authority, and to force that rebellious 
girl to obey me, and tell me what she is carrying from 
that room.” 

“ Sir Adrian ! ” I cried. 

“ My son ! ” appealed Lady Caryl. 

He looked from one to the other in great distress, at a 
loss what to say, indignant for my sake, yet his respect for 
his mother preventing him from uttering one word that 
would offend her. 

“ Gracia,” he said at last, “ I am quite sure that what 
you have there is your own. I do not doubt your word ; 
but could you not, as my mother wishes it, tell her what 
you have in your apron ?” 

It was hard to have to refuse his request ; but I must do 
it to save him. 

“ I am so very sorry,” I replied ; “ but indeed I cannot, 
Sir Adrian.” 

“ You see, Adrian,” observed her ladyship, “ that she 
will not and dare not.” 

He looked deeply grieved, but turned to Lady Caryl. 

“ Mother,” he said, “ I had almost forgotten what I 
came for. The Duchess of Morley, your old schoolfellow, 
is here. She has but a few hours to stay, and she wishes to 
see you.” 

“ The Duchess of Morley ! ” repeated Lady Caryl, hur- 
riedly. “ I am delighted. But what shall I do with 
Gracia ? I am quite determined that slie shall not conquer 
me. I will see what she has there.” 

“ Let me settle that for a time,” he rejoined. “ Gracia, 
you trust me, do you not ? Let me take charge of that.” 

My heart gave a bound. How could I say “Yes”? 
How could I say “ No ” ? 

He turned to a little buhl cabinet that stood near. 

“ Give it to me, Gracia,” he said. “ I will lock it up 
here until we have time to go into the matter.” 


72 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


It was a moment of terrible suspense to me. 

“ Will you promise me,” I asked, “ that no hands shall 
touch it — not even your own — and that no one shall see 
it ? ” 

“I promise,” he said, gravely. 

“You will give it back to me unopened and un- 
touched ? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied. 

I fastened my white apron more tightly round the little 
parcel, tied the ribbon-strings into the closest knots, and 
then handed it to him. 

He placed the parcel in the buhl cabinet, locked it, and 
gave me the key. 

“ That is to prove how I trust you,” he said, earnestly. 
“ Do not remove that parcel, Garcia, until you have made 
some arrangement with my mother. I trust you. Now, 
mother,” he said, turning to her ladyship, “ come and see 
the duchess. She will be impatient ; and to-night or to- 
morrow we can settle this unpleasant business ;” and he 
kissed her. 

“You will not oppose my wish, Adrian, that Gracia 
leave the house at once ? ” said Lady Caryl. 

“My dearest mother, we will see to that to-morrow, 
when everything shall be peaceably and happily arranged. 
Now smile and look bright, or the duchess will think you 
are not happy.” 

Lady Caryl smiled. 

“You are a good son to me, Adrian,” she said, gently ; 
“you never vex me.” 

And then — heaven bless him ! he came over to me. He 
took my hands in his, not heeding his mother’s presence. 

“ I am so sorry, Gracia. There is some mistake, my 
dear. I will see it rectified.” 

Her ladyship’s eyes flashed with anger. 

“How long did you say the duchess would remain?” 
she asked, coldly. 

“ Some hours, mother,” he replied. 

And then, Lady Caryl, taking her son’s arm, quitted the 
room. 

They left me standing there, with the key of the buhl 
cabinet in my hands. I remained motionless for a few 
moments, then went to my own room, feeling bewildered, 
and as if I were in a dream. 

I could hear, after a time, the sound of the piano ; and 
I knew that Lady Aditha was singing, and felt that Sir 


IN' cc'PiD's np:t. 


73 


Adrian was standing by her side, as he would never again 
stand by mine. 

It seemed to me the very irony of fate. I was the squire’s 
daughter and heiress ; this was my own house. If those 
below had known who I really was, even the duchess her- 
self would have been pleased to see me, and would have 
congratulated me. But the sacrifice was for Sir Adrian ; 
and I would have sacrificed more for him. What pleasure 
would money or lands give me if I knew that I was rob- 
bing him of either ? 

I would go on the morrow, but not to Miss Kenyon’s. 
I would make my way in the world, pass out of their lives, 
and some day in the long years to come I would creep 
back just once to Heron’s Nest, and look at them all again, 
unseen myself — look at Sir Adrian, with the handsome 
face and the bonny blue eyes — my love, whom I should 
love until I died — look at his beautiful young wife and his 
stately mother ; then — 

But here I found myself with the tears raining down my 
face. Was it for this I had followed the light of the star 
to the postern-gate ? 


CHAPTER XI. 

After a time I grew uneasy. I knew that Sir Adrian 
was the soul of honor, and that I had the key of the buhl 
cabinet ; but what if by any accident those papers should 
be seen ? It would be easy for me to give up the comfort 
and luxury of the grand old mansion ; but I could not 
bear the thought of his doing so. Yet, if he had the faint- 
est notion of what the papers contained, I knew he would 
see justice done. 

The more I dwelt on the idea of my sacrifice the better 
it pleased me. Now indeed I could give a proof of my 
love although it was known only to Heaven. Now it was 
not merely a phantom love that I could see in my own 
mind ; here was a tangible proof of how dearly I loved 
him. What greater sacrifice could a woman make? 

My love should never leave Heron’s Nest for me. He 
should live here with his beautiful young wife and children, 
while I went out alone into the cold world. For him 
should be the pleasure, for me the pain ; for him the 
bright happiness of life, for me its unutterable woe ; for 


74 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


him the wine, for me the lees — and he would never know 
what he owed to me. Perhaps, when I was on my death- 
bed, I might tell him. But no ; that would spoil all. My 
sacrifice must be complete. On my gravestone I would 
have only the one word “Gracia,” even as my mother had 
simply the word “ Isola.” My heart was on fire with the 
desire of self-sacrifice ; and 1 even loved the pain 1 felt, 
because it was for his good. 

But I must have the papers, whether it was dishonorable 
or not. He trusted me ; but I must break his trust, and 
let him think what he would. I must get those documents 
and destroy them, come what might. How was it to be 
done ? Lady Caryl spent a great deal of her time in her 
own room ; but, when darkness set in, and while she was 
in the drawing-room listening to Lady Aditha’s singing, I 
might steal into the boudoir and take them away. Then, 
when I had made away with them, I would go to Sir Adrian, 
tell him that I had betrayed his trust, that the packet was 
gone, and give him back the key. 

But the night would not grow dark ; the harvest-moon 
shone brightly, and a lovel)^ subdued light lingered in the 
sky. My every pulse thrilled with impatience. What if 
Lady Caryl should be seized with a sudden caprice to see 
for herself what the papers contained ? My plan of self- 
sacrifice would be vain then. Ah, no, my love — I would 
rather be buried alive with the packet in my arms ! 

I listened, with my heart throbbing painfully, on the 
grand staircase, where stood a marble statue of the god- 
dess Flora with a basket of roses at her feet. There was 
no sound, except of music from the drawing-room, where 
Lady Aditha was singing. The servants seemed to be all 
in their own part of the house ; there was no one to see or 
to hear. The moonlight streamed through the windows of 
the hall, and lay in great white patches on the staircase ; it 
silvered the roses at the goddess’s feet, and by its light I 
crept slowly, quietly downstairs, thinking as I went of the 
night when I had followed the light of the Christmas star. 

I reached Lady Caryl’s boudoir. There was no light, 
except that of the moon, which fell silver-white across the 
buhl cabinet. With a quickly-beating heart 1 unlocked the 
door. There the papers lay, untouched. In silence I took 
them away. 

What should I do with the precious packet ? It must be 
destroyed ; but it was not an easy thing to do. Even if I 
tore the letters into shreds, there would still be the rem- 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


75 


nant§. There was no fire in any of the rooms to which I 
had access ; I could not go to the kitchen. A sudden idea 
came to me. I would take the package just as it was, 
fasten a heavy stone to it, and fling it into the depths of the 
River Dale. 

The idea delighted me. I wrapped a shawl round my 
head and shoulders, and, holding the packet tightly in my 
hand, went out. As I passed tlie door of the large conser- 
vatory, I saw by the light of the moon the shadow of a 
man’s figure ; but he did not appear to see me as I hastened 
along. 

How fair the landscape was, tlie moon shining upon the 
turf and upon the leaves of the trees, which rustled gently 
in the wind ! The calm brooding silence of night lay 
around me as I walked on leisurely. There was no need 
to hurry now. I liad the packet in my liand, and the River 
Dale was shining in the distance. At length I reached the 
bank, and stood for some moments looking down at the 
water that would be the grave of my hopes, that would 
roll over the proofs of my birth and my fortune, sacrificed 
for the sake of my love. 

Presently I sat down upon the grass, and tried to realize 
how Sir Adrian would look if he knew all. How his blue 
eyes would brighten, yet reproach me ! How his face 
would change from grave to glad, and back to grave again ! 
Never shall I forget the beauty, the serenity of those few 
minutes I spent by the banks of the river in the moon- 
light, with the papers in my hand. 

Then I found a heavy stone, and I fastened it in my 
apron ; the weight was quite sufficient to sink a much 
larger parcel than the one I held in my hands. I walked 
with it slowly to the water’s edge. I kissed it. Farewell 
to name, to fortune, to every hope in this world for my 
love’s sake — for my love’s sake, farewell ! And, as I 
raised my arm to fling tlie parcel into the stream, I cried, 
“ P'or my love’s sake ! ” And then, shall I ever forget the 
horror of that moment ?— a hand seized mine, and took 
the parcel from me. 

“ What are you doing, Gracia ?” exclaimed a voice that 
chilled my heart. It was Sir Adrian. 

I staggered back, white, trembling, and faint. For some 
moments I could not recover myself ; and then I broke 
into a wild passion of tears. 

‘‘ Oh, give it to me, Sir Adrian !” I implored. “ I pray 
you, for Heaven’s sake, give it to me ! ” 


76 


IN CUPJD^S NET. 


“ I must know what it is, Gracia ; I cannot let this go 
on. I have a suspicion that it is something connected 
with yourself, and 1 must satisfy myself.” 

In my despair I sunk upon my knees at his feet. 

“ I beseech you, give it to me ! ” I cried. “ For my sake, 
for your own sake, for Heaven’s sake ! I shall go mad if you 
touch it ! ” 

He looked at me. 

“ I could refuse you nothing that was reasonable ; but 
in this instance I must be master ; I must know what this 
is.” 

When I heard his tone, when I saw the expression on 
his face, I knew all was over, and sunk sobbing upon the 
grass. 

“ I am grieved to distress you, Gracia,” he continued ; 
“ I cannot bear the sight of your tears ; but I must protect 
you against yourself.” 

By the light of the moon I saw him untie the parcel 
and take out the great stone and throw it away. I saw 
him take out the papers and scan them. I could hear the 
rustling of page after page — the certificates, my father’s 
letter, and finally the will. Then 1 became unconscious. 
It seemed to me that the moon and the stars fell to earth, 
that the river rose and swept me away. 

When my eyes opened at last, I saw neither moon nor 
river — only the face of the man I loved bending over mine 
with a look in his eyes to have won which I would have 
laid down my life. 

“ Gracia,” he was saying, “ Gracia, my noble generous 
darling ! Gracia, open your eyes and look at me.” 

Then I sat up gazing at him with dim, wondering eyes. 

“Gracia,” he said passionately, “what have you to tell 
me? I know everything. You would have deprived your- 
self of name and fortune. Why — tell me why ? ” 

And I answered him : 

“ For your sake. I could not bear that your loss should 
be my gain.” 

When the words had passed my lips, it seemed to me 
that the river rose again, and carried me away. When I 
came back to life, there was no river in sight, my love 
with the bonny blue eyes had disappeared, and I was lying 
in a room that was strange to me. The village doctor was 
standing by my bed, and Mrs. Paterson and Kate Fisher 
were also in the chamber. 

“ That is better,” said the doctor ; “ now we shall do !’* 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


77 


The sun was shining brightly into the room. Whither 
had Sir Adrian gone ? Where were my papers ? I started 
up with a wild cry when I remembered them. 

“Hush,” said the doctor. “You need not fear! You 
have been unconscious several hours. It was night when 
I came ; it is morning now. You must be quiet and 
rest.” 

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep ; but it was impos- 
sible. My senses were once more as clear as ever. I re- 
membered all that had happened by the river. Sir Adrian 
knew my secret now — knew the story that the papers told, 
and why I wanted to destroy them. Now what would be 
done ? They told me to rest, but I could not ; my head 
was burning, the blood coursed like liquid fire through 
my veins. Soon everyone would know that I was Gracia 
Dacre, daughter and heiress of the squire ; but Sir Adrian 
would lose Heron’s Nest. 

It was a terrible fever while it lasted. In my delirium it 
seemed to me that the river was bearing me away down to 
the sea. I fought with it, struggled with it, cried out to 
the waters not to drown me. Then they grew perfectly 
calm, and I was floating down the stream. 

I can hardly tell when the fever abated. The harvest- 
moon was shining on the night when Sir Adrian caught 
me by the river ; it was the middle of October when one 
morning I opened my eyes to sense and reason and saw 
the sunlight flickering on the wall. 

I heard afterward what had passed : and I think this is 
the best place to tell it. 

Sir Adrian had raised me in his arms and carried me 
back to the house, to her ladyship’s boudoir, where the 
terrible charge had been brought against me. He laid me 
on the couch, and then went in search of his mother. She 
came, and they stood one on either side of me. 

“ Mother,” he said, “do you know who this is— this girl 
who has been nameless and friendless, against whom you 
brought a charge of theft, whom you have ordered from 
the only shelter she has ever known ? Do you know who 
she is ? ” 

“ Neither I nor anyone else can answer that question,” 
replied Lady Caryl. 

“ I can answer it,” declared Sir Adrian ; “ I know who 
she is. She is the daughter and heiress of the late squire.” 

“ I do not believe it 1 ” cried her ladyship ; but her face 
grew ghastly white, 


78 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


“Read those papers,” said Sir Adrian, “and then you 
must believe.” 

Slowly her ladyship read them through, then laid them 
down. 

“ Do you believe now ?” asked Sir Adrian. 

“ I must believe,” she answered ; but the words were 
spoken in protest, even against her will. Then after a 
few moments’ thought, she added, “ What a terrible mis- 
take ! I wonder the old squire could rest in his grave ! 
His only child, too ! ” 

“ It is plain enough, mother, that these proofs of her 
identity and the squire’s will made in her favor are what 
she found in the old lumber-rooms. She had hidden them, 
and meant to destroy them. Do you see the generosity of 
the deed ? She was giving up name, fortune, position — 
and why? Shall I tell you why, mother?” 

“Yes,” answered her ladyship ; and there were tears in 
her eyes as she spoke. 

“ For my sake, and because she could not bear that her 
gain should be my loss, she was giving up all that she 
valued most in the world. Mother,” he added, quickly, 
“ do you think there is another woman in the world who 
would do this for me ? ” 

And the tears rained down Lady Caryl’s face as ^he an- 
swered that she did not. 

“She must have her rights, and have them at once,” Sir 
Adrian went on. “The squire might well speak of right- 
ing a wrong ! A more cruel wrong than this was never 
perpetrated. I will send for Mr. Graham to-morrow, and 
she shall be acknowledged mistress of Heron’s Nest at 
once. It is hers.” 

“ Yes,” agreed her ladyship, most unwillingly, “ it is 
hers. But what will the world say ? ” 

“ I care nothing for that,” replied Sir Adrian. “ Mother, 
)"ou will see that she is known henceforth as Miss Dacre, 
heiress of Heron’s Nest.” 

Then I was carried upstairs, and my terrible fever be- 
gan, and lasted until I awoke that morning and saw the 
sunshine flickering on the wall. 

My senses were clear, and I found that my story was 
known, for the nurses called me Miss Dacre. 

When I was able to bear the interview. Lady Caryl came 
to see me. She was kind and gentle, but evidently ill at 
ease. 

“ It has been a terrible mistake, my dear,” she said, 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


79 


bending down to kiss me ; “ the squire was greatly to 
blame. You have been cruelly treated ! ” She was silent 
for a few moments, then she continued, “ For my share in 
it 1 beg your pardon. I was completely misled. I was 
forced to believe that you were the unacknowledged 
daughter of an old servant — a friendless dependent on the 
charity of the house ; and, in treating you as such, I did 
no wrong. Indeed,” she added, after a pause, “ I may 
say that I treated you generously. Of course I had not 
the faintest idea that you were Gracia Dacre.” 

I drew her hand to my lips and kissed it. 

“ I hope I shall never get well. Lady Caryl,” I said. I 
cannot bear the thought of taking Heron’s Nest from Sir 
Adrian. He is so proud of the old place ! ” 

She smiled a peculiar smile, such as I had never seen on 
her face before. 

“ It is your right,” she answered. “ My son will feel 
the loss ; but he is not a poor man ; he will soon find an- 
other home. No harm has been done to us ; but great 
harm has been done to you. We must atone for it.” 

When Lady Caryl did anything, it was always royally 
done, and she made full amends to me. 

“ I can never do too much for you,” she said to me one 
day ; “ for you would have given up everything you had 
in the world for my son.” 

As I grew stronger, I found that the whole county 
knew of the strange incident which had taken place at the 
old manor-house. Lady Caryl herself had at once made 
it public ; and, as accounts of it has appeared in all the 
newpapers, everyone in England knew how the poor 
companion had become the proud owner of Heron’s Nest. 

The day came when I was well enough to discuss my 
future with Lady Caryl. I had not seen Sir Adrian since 
my illness began. Lady Caryl had promised me from day 
to day that when I was a little better he should be present 
at the consultation we were going to have. It was one of 
the last days of October, and I was carried into the lib- 
rary on my couch. 

How it brought back old times to me, to see that room 
again, the chair in which my father, the squire, had sat 
writing, the table on which those precious papers had lain ! 

It was a bright, warm autumn day ; a few late roses were 
in bloom, and the chrysanthemums were unusually fine. 
During all these long weeks I had forgotten Lady Aditha; 
but now I remembered her suddenly as the woman whom 


8o 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


I understood Sir Adrian was to marry. I asked Lady 
Caryl where she was. 

“ Gone,” she replied. “Mrs. Roper has a great dread of 
illness. As soon as she knew that you had brain-fever, she 
left, and Lady Aditha went with her.” 

“ I hope — ” Then I paused, for the word seemed so 
difficult to utter. “ I hope that my illness did not delay the 
marriage.” 

“What marriage ?” asked Lady Caryl quickly. 

“Did I dream it? I had many dreams when I was ill, 
and they were so real. I am confused at times. I thought 
Sir Adrian and Lady Aditha were to be married.” 

Lady Caryl looked a little perplexed, 

“ I told you that,” she said. “ I ought to explain. Lady 
Aditha’s mother and I were great friends, and our child- 
ren were playmates twenty years ago. It was her mother 
and I who talked about their marriage then, and I have 
wished for it ever since.” 

“ Then they were not engaged ? ” I queried. 

“Not perhaps in the strict sense of the word,” she re- 
plied ; “ but I have always looked upon them as an en- 
gaged couple. I have always thought of Lady Aditha as 
my son’s wife.” 

“ And he has done the same, I suppose ? ” was my re- 
mark ; but she did not seem quite so sure of it. 

Shortly afterward Mr. Graham came in, followed by Sir 
Adrian ; and, when my eyes fell once more upon his face, 
I forgot everything. I had seen it last in the moonlight in 
that supreme hour of my life when he had taken the pa- 
pers from me. 

“ Gracia,” he said, as he took my hands, “ I am so 
pleased to see you again.” Then he sat down by my side ; 
and to my foolish happy heart it was as though he had 
taken possession of me. 

There could be no question, Mr. Graham said, as to the 
validity of the papers, none as to my rights. I was indeed 
heiress of Heron’s Nest. Then I made my petition to 
them, and it was that they would not take Heron’s Nest 
from Sir Adrian, but let him keep it. I would accept 
money from them — enough to live comfortably on-^enough 
to live in luxury — but not Heron’s Nest, Sir Adrian loved 
it ; let him keep it. 

“You do love it, do you not ? ” I said, turning to him. 

“ I do,” he returned earnestly ; “for it holds the noblest 
heart in the world.” 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


Si 


“ But you love it for itself, do you not ?” I asked again. 

“ Yes,” he answered with a smile that I never forgot. 

“ Let me give it to him ; let me make it legally his ! ” I 
entreated. But Mr. Graham shook his head. 

“ It cannot be done. Miss Dacre, Heron’s Nest his yours, 
and you must keep it.” 

Sir Adrian bent down and kissed my hand. 

“There could be no better mistress for it, Gracia,” he 
said. 

It was arranged that I should remain where I was un- 
til Christmas, and that Lady Caryl should stay with me. 

“Do you know where I am going, Gracia?” Sir Adrian 
whispered presently. 

I forgot that anyone else was near — I forgot Lady 
Caryl and the lawyer, as I clung to the hands that held 
mine. 

“Where are you going?” I asked quickly. “Oh, Sir 
Adrian, do not go ! Stay here.” 

He bent his head still lower. 

“Gracia,” he said, in a low tone, “ I could not stay here 
just now, dear. It would be hardly right. I am going to 
Spain. I shall see the old church in Granada where your 
mother and the squire were married, and 1 shall see the 
white marble cross with the name ‘Isola’ upon it. Are you 
content ? ” 

“ Must you go ? ” I cried. 

“ Yes, Gracia,” he said ; “ it is imperative ; but I shall be 
back for Christmas, and you will be quite w^ell by then. I 
shall go hoping to find you better — nay, well — when I re- 
turn.” 

He went ; and I, growing better and stronger every day, 
did nothing but count the hours until his return. 


CHAPTER XH. 

It was Christmas Eve again ; but how changed was all 
the world to me ! Last year a nameless outcast, this year 
I was Gracia Dacre, heiress of Heron’s Nest ; and, with 
swiftly-falling tears, I offered up my thanks to Heaven. 

Nothing could have been kinder than the world’s wel- 
come to me. I contrasted it with that accorded to me 
when I first came to the old manor-house. I learned many 
lessons then, thatT should never have learned otherwise. 

6 


82 


IN CUPID \S NET. 


The wonder excited by my story did not last long. I heard 
afterward that no one was very much surprised ; people 
confessed that they had not thought of it before. ■ The 
neighboring residents welcomed me most heartily, while 
they approved highly of Lady Caryl. They said tliat she 
had done the right and proper thing — tliat, by remaining 
with me for a time, she had shown the greatest magna- 
nimity and generosity ; and the whole county warmed to 
her ladyship as it had never warmed before. 

Lady Caryl thought it better to change most of the new 
servants, but not the older ones ; they were only too de- 
lighted to know that I was the old squire’s daughter. 

I must confess that I enjoyed the first call made by Mrs. 
and Miss Sale. When I was simply Gracia, without a 
second name, they had treated me with the coldest con- 
tempt ; they treated Miss Dacre with the utmost respect. 
Mrs. Sale held out her arms to me, and would have em- 
braced me ; but I could not suffer her to do tliat. 

“ My dearest child,” she cried elfusively, “you must do 
your best to make up for those wasted years now. Any- 
thing that we can do — my daughter and myself — we will 
do most willingly.” 

Lady Caryl cut her raptures very short. 

“To think,” sighed Mrs. Sale, “that the last of the 
Dacres was living among us, and we did not know it ! ” 

She made me many overtures of friendship ; and her 
daughter, who had never had a civil word for the friend- 
less girl, was fawningly polite to the heiress of Heron’s 
Nest ; but I could not encourage their advances. 

Lady Caryl, in talking to me about the future, said 
that she fancied Sir Adrian would purchase an estate in 
Norfolk. She expressed great affection for me, and said 
that, if the idea met with my approval, I should spend 
next season in town with her. I did not tell her why the 
suggestion pleased me so much. I knew that, if I were in 
town with her, I should see her son almost every day. 

Sir Adrian wrote to me from Spain, and told me that he 
had seen the church where my mother and father were 
married — that lie had seen the marriage register and the 
marble monument that bore the name of “ Isola.” He 
added — and I kissed the written words again and again — 
that he should be back at Christmas, and hoped to spend 
it at Heron’s Nest. 

And Christmas came with a pure mantle of snow and a 
crown of green holly. All that had passed since the 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


83 


Christmas before would have seemed like a dream but 
that it was so happily true. This Christmas Eve was ex- 
actly like the last, cold and clear, and beautiful, with the 
stars shining brightly. There among them shone the 
luminous star that had led me only last year to the pos- 
tern-gate. Little need to ask whither its light had led me 
now ! I could hear the bells chiming, as I had heard them 
years before. “ Christmas is come — Christmas is come ! ” 
Every word came so clearly to me over the snow. 

Heron’s Nest that Christmas Eve looked most pictu- 
resque, and I had taken great pains to make it so. Mistletoe 
and holly hung in profusion on the walls of the grand old 
mansion. Christmas was indeed come, bringing with it 
love and peace. No harsh word disturbed the harmony 
that reigned throughout the house. 

I had. resisted every effort that Lady Caryl made to re- 
linquish her position. I was determined that, so long as 
she remained in the house, she should be complete mis- 
tress of it ; and, when she discovered that, she showed her 
appreciation by increased kindness to me. We had both 
agreed that the old manor-house looked its fairest and 
best on Christmas Eve. Every picture-frame, every pillar 
was wreathed with holly and laurel. There was no doubt 
about its being Christmas, and the gay appearance of 
Heron’s Nest unmistakably proclaimed it. 

Sir Adrian was to come that night, just as he had done 
on Christmas Eve the year before, through the starlight, 
over the snow. Oh, happy Christmas that was to bring 
him to me ! 1 did not reflect whether his stay would be 

long or short ; I did not try to foresee any ending ; all 
my thoughts were concentrated on the fact that I was to 
see him. 

Lady Caryl had ordered my dress — pale rose silk, trimmed 
with white tulle — and I wore diamond ornaments. Yes, I 
— Gracia, who last year was a friendless dependent — wore 
the Dacre diamonds, and at my throat and in my hair was 
fastened a sprig of laurestinus. May Heaven forgive me 
if, as I looked in the glass, I felt a thrill of pride ! I 
could not help seeing then that I was beautiful, and I was 
glad. 

The bells of Heronsdale Church had not ceased chiming, 
and the moon was shining white and high in the heavens. 
Feeling restless and impatient, I went to one of the win- 
dows of the drawdng-room, whence I could see the drive. 
This was my home now, and I must bid him welcome to it. 


84 


IN CUPID^S NET. 


When at last I saw the carriage, I never thought of eti- 
quette, but hastened to the hall-door to be the first to 
greet him ; and I remember no more until a handsome 
face, cold with the fresh air, touched mine, and the voice I 
loved best on earth cried “Gracia!” Then I bade him 
welcome home. After that both of us must have forgotten 
everything else in the world but each other, as we stood 
on the top of the great flight of steps by the wide-open 
hall-door, the ruddy light streaming out upon the snow. 

Presently he unclapsed his arms, and, going into the 
hall, he took down a large fur-cloak that was hanging 
there, and wrapped it round me. 

“Come with me, Gracia,” he said. “ I have something 
to say to you ; and I can say it nowhere else but at the old 
postern-gate.” 

I went with him dowm the terrace-steps, across the lawn, 
and over to the postern-gate. The ivy-mantled wall was 
covered with snow, as it had been a twelvemonth before, 
and the bright Christmas star was shining overliead. I 
did not tremble ; but a feeling of awe came over me. He 
had not spoken as we walked along, but, w’hen we stood 
near the ivy, and the wind stirred the green leaves and the 
snow’ fell, he caught me in his arms and kissed me passion- 
ately. 

“ Oh, Gracia,” he cried, “ here, w’here the light of the 
star first led you to me — let me ask you — will you be my 
wife ? ” 

I took courage and looked up into his face. 

“What of Lady Aditha ?” I asked, blushing. 

“Lady Aditlia is going to marry the Duke of Cortland,” 
he laughed. “ She was very fond of me when I w^as a 
little boy ; but, to tell you the truth, Gracia, she ceased to 
care for me when she found that I had lost Heron’s Nest.” 

“ Did you care ? ” I asked falteringly. 

“Not at all. Why, Gracia, I have alw’ays loved you, 
and no one but you 1 On the night I first saw you — you, 
wdth your beautiful dark eyes and sweet quaint name— I 
loved you. I loved you then, and I have loved you ever 
since. Will you be my wife, Gracia ? ” 

I could not speak for very excess of joy. 

“ I shall never love anyone else,” he w^ent on. “ My 
love for you, Gracia, will never change. Will you be my 
wife ? ” 

I said “Yes and then I in my turn told him how I 
had loved him. 


IN CUPID'S NET. 


85 


So we plighted our troth under the light of the stars, 
with the Christmas snow lying white on the ground and 
the bells chiming — a troth that has never been broken, and 
will be kept while life lasts. 

It was thither that the light of the Christmas star led 
me, and its rays shine warm in my heart even now. 



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tions every American must take an honest pride.” 

Another GREAT historian, George Bancroft, writes: — “His 
surpassing ability has made his own name and the names of the 
creations of his fancy ‘household words’ throughout the civilized 
world.” 

Washington Irving left on record: —“Cooper emphatically 
belongs to the nation. He has left a space in our literature which 
will not be easily supplied.” 

Wm. C. Bryant, the poet and philosopher, says:— “Rewrote for 
mankind at large; hence it is that he has earned a fame wider than 
any author of modern limes. The creations of his genius shall 
survive through centuries to come, and only perish with our 
language.” 


JOHN W. LOVELL CO., PuLlisliers, 

14 & 16 Vesey St., New York. 



EUGENE ARAM. 

A TALK 

By SIR EDWARD BOLWER LYTTON, Bart. 

Tills, like all of Lord Lyt ton’s Vforks, is 
replete witli good points and fascinating in- 
cidents, and is one, too, in wliicli tlie interest 
increases as tlie plot is unfolded. The book 
is in constant demand, and the story has at- 
tained a high place in the theatrical world, 
and is one of the best plays ever performed 
by the renowned actor, 

ML. HENLY ILVING. 


PUBLISHED HY 

JOHN W. LOVEIiL COMPATTY, 

14r 16 Vesey Stx^eet, 

ISTEW 


Earnest, honest and forcible ; radical to the 
root; bold, sweeping and dogmatic .** — Louisville Courier- 
Journal. 



By HENRV GEORGE. 

1 Vol. 12ino., Paper Covers, 50 Cents. 

A new edition, printed from large type and on heavy good paper. 

This great book treats of the canee of industrial depression, and of increase 
of want with increase of wealth, and the remedy. 


THE PRESS SAYS: 

“N't merely the most original, the most striking and important contribution 
which political economy has yet received from America, but it is not too much 
to say that in these respects it has had no equal since the piiblication of ‘ The 
Wealth of Nations,’ by Adam Smith, a centnry ago.’ ’’ — New York Herald. 

“ Few books ha%'e in recent years proceeded from any American pen that 
have more plainly borne the marks of wide learning and strenuous thought.” — 
New York Sun. 

“A masterly book. Mr. George is the only man who has not merely put 
down clearly, in black and white, what are the causes of social disease, but 
offered a cure.”— York Times. 

“ A courageous thinker, who, though familiar with the learning of the books, 
follows the conclusions of his own reasoning.”— iVew York Tribune. 

““ If we were asked to name the most important work of the Nineteenth 
Century, we would name ‘ Progress and Poverty.’ ” — New York Era. 

'‘A book which no public man can afford to omit xQO.&.xng.''''— Washington 
Critic. 

*• The most remarkable book of the century in its possible effects upon the 
course of human events.” — Charleston News and Courier. 

“ Every sentence is as clear as a sunbeam; every proposition is as legiti- 
mately traced to its logical result as one of Euclid’s. — Galveston News. 

% 

“ A trumpet call to a struggle which cannot long be tew Philadelphia 
Star. 


JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street, New York. 


‘ Dr. Newton has had given to him the {spiritual 
sense of what people wanted, and this he has rev- 
erently, clearly and definitely furnished.” — Boston 
Her aid, March 17. 



By Rev. R. Heber Newton. 

No. 83, “Lovell’s Library,” Paper Covers, 20 Cents; Also 
IN Cloth, Red Edges, 75 Cents. 


“ Dr. Newton has not separated his heart from his head in the«e 
religious studies, and has thus been preserved from the mistakes 
which a purely critical mind might have been led.” — N. Y. Times, 
March 12. 

“Those who wish to abuse Dr. Newton should do so before 
reading his lectures, as, after reading them, they may find it quite 
impossible to do so.” — N. T. Star, March il. 

“It is impossible to read these sermons without high admiration 
of the author’s courage ; of his honesty, his reverential spirits his 
wide and careful reading, and his true conservatism .” — Amerioan 
lAterary Churchman, 

For sale by all Newsdealers and Booksellers. 

JOHN V/. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 6c 16 Vesey St., New York. 




Detective Stories 


/ 


Exciting, Interesting, Clever and Able. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ, 

OTHER PEOPLES^ MONEY, 
THE LEROUGE CASE, 

WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE- 

By EMILE GABORIAU. 

Large 12mo. e itions, printed on good paper, from large type. 
Cloth, Gold and Clack, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50c. 


Gaboriau’s books have been translated into every civilized lan- 
guage. Many thousands of copies of each book have been sold in 
America. The reader’s interest is not allowed to wane for a 
moment till the last page is reached. 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 & 16 Vesey St.. New York. 


By thine ewn soul’s law, learn to live ; 

And if men tliwart thee, take no heed, 

And if men hate thee, have no care— 

Sing thou thy song, and do thy deed ; 

Hope thou thy hope, and pray thy prayer, 

And claim no crown they will not give. 

John G. WhittieBo 



JUST PUBLISHED. 

INTEGRAL CO-OPERATION 

By ALBERT K. OWEN. 

A hook (200 pages, 12mo) containing three plans illustrating sections and 
buildings suggested for “Pacific Colony Site,” and two maps showing 
Topolobampo Bay, Sinaloa, Mexico, including “Mochis Eauch,” the valley of 
the Rio Fuerte and its vicinage. 

Price, 30 cents. Sent, postage free, by John W. Lovell Co., Nos. 
14 and 16 Vesey Street, New York City. 


Also, a Weekly Paper, 



Edited by MARIE and EDWARD HOWLAND, 

Hammonton, New Jersey. 

Subscription, $1 j six months, 50c. j three months, 25c, 

This pai)er (16-page pamphlet) is devoted exclusively to the propaganda 
for the practical application of integral-co-operation. 

While being an uncompromising exponent of Socialism, the Credit 
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methods. Its Colonists are to be known as “ constructionists ” and “ individ- 
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The Credit Foncier presents a matured plan, with details, for farm, 
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It asks for evolution and not for revolution ; for inter-dei)eudence and not 
for independence : for co-operation and not for competition ; for equity and 
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it demands that the common interests of the citizen— the atmosphere, land, 
water, light, power, exchange, transportation, construction, sanitation, edu- 
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pooled,” and that the private life of the citizen be held sacred. 


or bonnebouches chosen from the wisest and wiU 
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THE CHEAPEST WEEKLY PUBLISHED. 


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ILLUSTRATED. 

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times on every side, and is an ‘‘abstract and brief chronicle” 
of current thought — grave and gay. 

HUMOROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. — Tid-Bits’ car- 
toons are the work of the cleverest caricaturists. They are 
graphic and pointed. 

PRIZES.— A prize of $io is offered weekly for the best 
short story — not necessaiily original — submitted to the editor, 
and prizes for answers to questions of various sorts are also 
offered from time to time. 

If there is anything new worth knowing you will find it in 
Tid-Bits. 

If there is anything new worth laughing at you will find 
it in Tid-Bits. 

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had for 3 cents in any other' form. 

A sample copy will be sent free of postage to anyone 
addressingThe publishers... Subscription, $1.50 a year. 

JOHN W. lOVELl CO., 14 Vesey Street, New York. 








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